


Genesis

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: (But a lot of hurt before the comfort), Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce is Dumpster Fire Dad, Bruce is a questionable parent, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian gets whumped pretty badly but he's actually the surprise best boi, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dubious Morality, Flashbacks, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jason Todd doesn't get along with the Batfam, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Scars, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Tim Drake-centric, Tim is #best detective, Tim is...well he'll figure it out I guess, amnesia!Tim, mild gore and violence, tim's pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: A month separated the then and now, the month in which Tim Drake had inexplicably vanished. Tim couldn't shake the feeling that if he pieced it together, he'd be able to rediscover who he was—and who he wanted to be.(Amnesia!Tim, Post Red Robin #26)





	1. Prologue: Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic contains torture, (non-sexual) abuse of minors, canon-typical gore and violence, non-consensual drug use, minor character death, and serious injury. I don't provide content warnings before individual chapters purely because I don't want to spoil things for other readers, but please keep these warnings in mind. Your mental health is always more important. <3

_His arms screamed at him angrily. The wire line in his hands bit into gloved fingers, threatening to pull him over the railing that was already protesting under his weight. Tired muscles hissed for him to let go, but_ _—He couldn't. He had to pull him up, keep him from falling._

_Footsteps._

_There were footsteps growing nearer, and his heart stopped, arteries pumping ice, because_ he _wasn't supposed to be here._

_"Looks like today, I get to kill two birds with one stone."_

_A laugh sounded, bloodcurdling._

_Fingers tightened around the line on instinct._ I have to save him. He'd never forgive me if I didn't.

_"What are you going to do, little birdy?"_

Click.

_The safety was off._

_He was too close, no time to dodge, to counter; it was going to be over in a matter of moments._

Have to. Can't let him...

_"Die."_

_Movement came without thought, his whole body spinning and pulling the line away, away from the danger that lay underneath. A silent prayer was sent up that the kid would fall somewhere safe, out of the way long enough for..._

I'm sorry. I wish... I wish I could've done more.

_The spinning momentum carried him, standing wide-eyed in front of a gun and slick metal. The barrel stared him down, eyeing him apathetically, coldly. The trigger was pulled, and time slowed._

It's too late for me, but...

_The gears of the gun clicked, slid into place mechanic and deadly._

Don't let it be too late for him.

_A voice in his head said this wasn't supposed to be the day he died. He was supposed to die as_ _—_

No, I can't.

_A flash of fire, sinewy tendrils of smoke and gunpowder clogging the air._

I can't leave yet.

_The thundering boom._

Move!

_Falling backward, back hitting on something hard, trouble breathing, thinking. He couldn't see, couldn't process. He was aware of someone screaming._

_Someone laughing._

I never told him.

_Everything was fading, fading fast like sand slipping through the choked neck of an hourglass, grain by gain until there was_ _—_


	2. Initiation

It felt like coming up for air. Everything was black, dark, and muffled. There was a pressure around him, pushing in on him like an empty box.

He was floating, lost in a void, a jumble of thoughts with no body attached to them.

And suddenly, he broke the surface.

He was aware of his lungs moving beneath him, aching with each hollow breath. The insides of his throat were coated with something thick. It was hard to breathe. He coughed, the motion sending pain reverberating through his entire being like an earthquake with his taught chest as the epicenter.

The skin of his back was pressed against, reclined on something—in something. Something hard and smooth like carved stone but sticky and gummy like...

He groped around until he found a ledge of some sort, attempting to pull himself up until his back erupted in pain, his whole body tensing as the sharp stabs tore at his flesh. He gasped for air, opting to let himself rest until his head stopped spinning. An annoying ringing was drowning out any sound, buzzing as though it was trying to get his attention, tell him something was wrong. A pained groan escaped his lips.

His ears eventually cleared out, faraway noises echoing around in long booms in tune with the heavy drumming of his heart. He forced his eyes to open, the world coming into focus through thick eyelashes.

_Where…?_

The room was tiny and dimly lit by a faint light that slipped in through an open door. It must've been daytime.

His eyes slid sluggishly to the side, surveying as much of the area as he could without moving his neck.

He was in a modest-sized bathroom, a sink, toilet, and porcelain bathtub—where he currently found himself—packed compactly into a grey-tiled room. A pitiful medicine cabinet door dangled precariously off its upper hinge, and a grimy mirror feebly reflected the cheap plastic splash as well as a smaller mirror on the opposing shower wall.

Tiredly, his eyes slunk down to look himself over.

He was wearing some kind of... costume? The arms and chest were a vivid cardinal red, lackluster in the dim lighting, and a pair of blood-caked boots glistened ominously on his feet, telling him to check on his torso, which was sloppily wrapped in dense, black fabric—what must've been passing for a makeshift bandage.

He winced as he snaked his fingers through the cloth, painstakingly unwrapping it piece by piece. His abdomen looked alright he guessed. The front parts of the suit were torn, defaced with a few bloodstains but no major wounds that could have caused so much pain. Or so much blood.

Feeling nauseous at the thought, he did his best to ignore the crimson liquid that lined the shadowed inside of the tub and the streaked hand prints that marred the walls. He was really hoping it hadn't all come from him.

Trying to force himself up again, he used his feet to push himself against the opposite wall, but his momentum gave out on him, leaving him to catch himself on the ledge of the tub before he completely crumpled over.

"Hello?" he croaked, hoping for someone else to be out there. Indifferent silence came in reply.

He took in a thick breath and managed to stand upright with a great deal of effort. Using the cool walls and counter top for support, he stumbled forward and straightened up to meet the mirror.

An exhausted specter of a teenager returned his gaze. Blood-soaked, raven hair affixed itself to ghostly white skin, contrasting markedly with the dark circles underneath his eyes. A pair of pupils drowned in azure irises. They flinched as the pulsating ache in his back almost knocked him over.

He gingerly fingered the plateau of his shoulder blade, a gaping hole in his suit leaving the entirety of his upper back exposed. He retracted his hand to scrutinize the dried liquid on his fingers with a low groan.  _I look as lousy as I feel…_  Leaning over the sink, the teenager brought his attention back to the mirror. His eyes widened as he recalled the second mirror in the room, shifting slightly so that he could see his back through the other reflection.

He almost wished he hadn't.

Paths of dried blood shimmered around the edges of deep, deliberate marks, carefully branded onto him with a what must've been a knife. Two jagged wings bit into his shoulder blades, a sharp tail trailing down the center of his back while a two-pronged head pierced the sides of his cervical spine. The tissue around the marks was tender, gathering around the edges of each slice. No doubt it was going to scar.

The teenager blinked at the emblem blankly, absentmindedly running a finger along the stinging lines.

But what did it mean? And who had done it?

His blood ran cold, eyes flickering back to the stranger in the mirror.

 _Who am_  I _?_

* * *

It was a strange realization, not remembering your own name. Could something so integral to a person's identity so easily vanish, slip through fingers like water?

 _Water_ , he agreed, propped up against the coolness of a brick wall. You can hold it, know it's there, can understand it's H20—even prove it—but what  _is_  it? Where did it come from?

And where does it go?

 _Yeah_ , he decided, releasing a breath thick with pain.  _Memories are like water_. At least his were, anyway. He felt like every time he tried to recall how he'd woken up in that dusty apartment an hour ago, how he'd gotten that odd mark on his back, he was looking into a pool of clear water in his cupped hands. He could understand there was something there, but he only peered through it at his seemingly-empty palms—just like his seemingly-empty skull: The more he shook it for answers, the more water spilled out, escaped through his fingers until his hands were frustratingly bare and his mind just  _frustrated_.

That was what it felt like, and with the feeling explained, he told himself he could let it go; the fact that he couldn't remember who he was could be filed away and ignored until it solved itself.

Only, it didn't go away. It scratched at the back of his hazy mind, trying to drive him mad with the incessant question: Who are you?

Who are you?

Who are you?

It was like there was someone there, someone other than himself, towering above him, pushing him further and further into a bottomless rabbit hole of  _nothing_  with questions that he couldn't answer and a face he didn't know. He wanted to tell it to stop. He'd already been to the bottom and back. There was nothing there, just ocean upon ocean of clear, unyielding water.

He closed his tired eyes, leaning his head back against the cold wall behind him. It felt so good, like he could lay there in the freezing world and stop thinking and breathing and just  _stop_.

But he couldn't stop yet.

He had to get up and find answers, because he was pretty sure that his thoughts would keep whirling even if he was dead. So, he pushed himself to his feet, his head fogging up at the motion and his vision tunneling, caving in, until the fuzziness subsided back to his peripherals.

Following the wall, he managed to round another corner, but this alley was empty, too. All he needed to do was find one person. Someone who was willing to help take him to the hospital or the police station or whatever place was needed to get this sort of mess straightened out. One person. That was all.

The world slipped out from underneath him, knocking him to his knees. He winced at the unwelcome feeling of gravel embedding itself in his gloves and made to brush them off. But something was stuck.

Faintly annoyed, he tried to shake the flimsy object off, but instead it clung to the blood on his hands more stubbornly. He peeled off the layer of paper, observing it distastefully through exhausted, half-closed eyes.

"THE GOTHAM GAZETTE."

_A newspaper._

He had half a mind to throw it aside until the ache in his back spiked and rocketed down his spine. He lurched forward with a cry, forehead pressed to the monochrome pages as he waited on bated breath for the pain to pass. After a few minutes in which he wondered if it would ever leave, the sensation faded back into a dull ache.

He forced his eyelids to open again, concentrating on the letters and pictures that were dancing inches in front of him. When they came into focus, his vision locked on one of the teased photos on the cover.

The person he'd seen in the mirror earlier was now smiling over a podium and waving to a crowd of people. His raven hair was smoothed back behind his ears, white skin glowing without any sign of scarring or exhaustion. A handsome young man that seemed brimming with promise.

The picture was captioned "Hunting for the Truth: Where is Tim Wayne?"

_Tim… Wayne?_

He flipped sluggishly to the mentioned page, devouring the words that were laid at his feet despite the spitting headache they gave him.

It seemed the teen mogul was taking time off to pursue schooling in Berlin. The writer wasn't so convinced, citing his disappearance as "sudden" and "ill-timed." The reporter hinted that, instead, he was secretly pursuing a romantic relationship overseas.

It went on like that for the rest of the article, mawkishly offering up potential recipients of the former-Wayne Enterprises CEO's new-found affections, but the gossip aside, the idea that he was studying in Germany was news to him.

He flipped back to the cover, a perplexed expression settling on his face.

The provided mailing address was for Gotham City, New Jersey. Not Germany at all.

And the paper—it was too new to be out of date.

As he continued to study the article, the facts unchanging and slowly adding up, he began to feel sick to his stomach.

_I'm in Gotham, half-dead. But someone is telling the world I'm in Berlin._

He forced himself to a wobbly stand, retracing the steps he'd already taken.

_Remember!_

Nothing.

 _What happened to me_?

Nothing.

He groaned, half out of pain, half out of annoyance, and continued his trek.

His thoughts tugged him back to the article.

Had someone…wanted him out of the picture? Lied about where he was to build an alibi?

He couldn't help but feel slightly panicky with paranoia. He needed to think straight, consider his options. What would he do? Go to the police? Were the cops here dependable?  _No, don't know for sure._  Hospital?  _Same thing._

But who could he trust with this?

He closed his eyes in frustration.

He needed answers, because as his thoughts began to run away with him, he realized he only truly knew one thing: Something was wrong, horribly wrong.


	3. Foreward

It had been a few days since then. He sat on the dusty paneled floors of the same apartment, the only décor the impressive cobwebs that slung themselves across corners and a few stray bullet holes. Scattered clusters of newspaper scraps littered the floors, smudged with dirt and filth from the alleyways he'd found them in. He sifted casually through the pile next to him, reading each headline carefully before placing it in its designated spot in front of him. The procedure had a rhythmic simplicity to it, not unlike working a jigsaw puzzle.

A sliver of gust pushed its way through a slit in the small, broken window, ushering in the smell of diesel trains and smokestacks. The teenager pinned down one of the threatened pieces of paper with his foot, his attention brought to the faded picture on the front. It was a rather unappealing shot of a young man in a tuxedo, a nervous, unsuspecting expression trapped eternally on his face as he stepped out of a sleek, black car. A photograph of another young woman was adjacent to it.

Part of the article had been sullied with dirt, undecipherable, but the bold-faced title was still obvious: "Engaged: Teen Wayne Heir Tim Drake to Wed Older Woman."

He observed the paper with unvoiced curiosity and a raised eyebrow. Eventually, he returned it to its rightful place next to the other engagement-based drabble he had uncovered with a small shake of his head.

Refocusing his attention on the pile beside him, he pulled another clipping close to his face, holding it with both hands. The same awkward teenager as before was this time sitting on an ornate chair. He was gazing up contentedly at an older man standing behind him, a pair of hands resting protectively—fatherly—on the back of the chair. The man, maybe in his mid-thirties, was instead looking directly into the camera. A relaxed smile was glistening in his calm eyes, betraying the nonchalance of his even mouth.

Tim surveyed the image for a long time.

It felt warm, familial; there was an unspoken bond between the two of them. The easy grin that graced the boy's face, the softness of his eyes… He didn't mind if the man acknowledged him or not. He trusted he cared, trusted the stable hands that held the chair and that eventually, whether in this frame or the next, this lifetime or the one after, he would look down and see him there gazing up at him.

And the other person? He seemed satisfied just being near the boy, comforted by the knowledge that he was with him and always would be.

Tim couldn't help but wonder where the man was now.

_Tim._

He made himself repeat the name over and over. He didn't want to forget anymore. He had a name, an identity. He was Tim.  _Tim. Tim. Tim._

Reeling in his thoughts, the teenager found himself still sitting on the floor, gazing longingly at the featured photograph.

_Father._

With care, Tim set the clipping down next to him, a happily-puzzled smile twisting his lips as he glazed over the silly title: "From Bachelor Pad to Family Man: Interview with Billionaire Bruce Wayne."

Tim once again turned back to the dwindling mound of articles. The idyllic fuzziness he had felt in his chest dissipated as he saw a symbol he had recently become well-acquainted with.

For the past two days, he taken to stalking the streets during the nighttime, cautiously trying his best to avoid attention as he searched for clothing, food, anything really. That was when he had spotted it. It had been suspended in the sky, a beam of bright light that shattered the peaceful dark of the clouds. He recalled instinctively reaching for his back, slipping further into the shadows, unable to look away but unable to admit to himself what he was seeing: the symbol etched into his very skin.

The Batman.

He had familiarized himself with Gotham's protector much more since then. It wasn't hard to do considering that crime seemed to get almost as much publicity as upper-class gossip, but all of the contradicting rumors and opinions only served to make his head spin; he felt no closer to understanding the person behind the mask—if there even was one.

The article he now held was more recent. The new condition of the paper made the stark whiteness practically luminescent by contrast, and the print was entirely legible, untouched by grime or rain. Apparently, a high-risk psychotic had escaped from the local asylum earlier that September. The Police Commissioner had promised that they were doing everything in their power to reacquire the man, alluding to receiving help from the Caped Crusader himself. They asked the public to come forward with any information relating to the case, but as Tim was skimming it, it didn't seem they had much to go off of. He wondered pensively if they had caught him yet.

Tim glanced out the window, noting that the ghastly glow of streetlights was now bouncing off of the buildings on the other side of the street.  _Almost nighttime_.

After placing the article near the others of its kind, he pushed himself to his feet and gave himself a moment to survey his work. The collection took the form of a giant Venn diagram. On one side was everything he could find related to Tim Drake-Wayne: Jack and Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne, Wayne Enterprises, Neon Knights, and a plethora of adopted siblings. Considering his situation, he was grateful for the public interest in his life, but he was terribly frustrated with how it all linked to the other side of the arrangement.

More specifically, he was frustrated by the complete  _absence_  of a link, a link to the Bat.

Of course, there was the Neon Knights, working with children who were at risk of getting into crime, but there had to be other groups of a similar nature. If this was the connection, then why would he have been the one singled out? And after the botched assassination attempt he'd read about, it would be sensible to assume that he had been assigned an impressive entourage of some sort. It would be hard for just anyone to get to Tim Wayne.

Perhaps he had no connection to Gotham's notorious vigilante—perhaps someone had simply been hoping to frame the Bat, leave an arbitrary teenager murdered somewhere with the insignia being the only clue.

But that wouldn't explain how Tim's disappearance had been veiled with the excuse of him being abroad. If it were so straight-forward, then everyone would be aware he was missing, and the GCPD would be out searching for him. That's how the criminal would have wanted it: public.

Bruce Wayne had been the one to provide the alibi. It was nonsensical to think that his adoptive father, head of numerous charities in his own right, would have wanted him out of the picture. But…maybe he had wanted control of Drake Industries? That was nonsense too. He'd seen a news flash in an electronics store window that the corporations had been talking about a merger since last spring, long before Tim had made his supposed retreat to Europe.

Round and round he went. Was it his adoptive father, a former party animal who had suddenly begun feeling threatened by his son's business savviness? Was it an inner-city gang, upset by how he was slowly draining them of their ranks? A rival company of Wayne Enterprises? A greedy sibling, unwilling to split their inheritance? A scorned lover? A relative of one of the officers he had called out on being corrupt earlier that year? Had he done it himself in some slipshod suicide attempt?

As he counted off the countless possibilities, he did his best to ignore the most obvious one—the one he dreaded the most.

His gaze shifted over to the other side of the diagram.

The police trusted him. The public revered him. And yet they knew nothing about him, this phantom who held so much power over Gotham: the Batman.

Tim glanced markedly at the torn heap of black and red cloth that watched him from the corner.

_Then again, maybe they know nothing about Tim Wayne, either._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic references are Red Robin #12 and #15.


	4. Emergence (I)

Although he'd never admit it, if Tim was grateful for anything, it was clothing donation bins. He'd found one about a mile out of the abandoned apartment complex a few nights back, hurriedly snagging the first things that he figured would fit (a ratty sweatshirt and a pair of equally-dilapidated cargo pants). He reasoned that it was fine to take from it, considering that it was most likely a fraud, anyway, and this time, he was hoping to find some shoes, his armored tabi-toed boots looking notably out of place with the casual ensemble.

Strangely enough, the teenager felt he was getting more and more comfortable with the unorthodoxies of his new life. He had grown more adept at gathering food for himself—albeit only scraps—and had established another line of intel, one more closely associated with the Bat.

The tiny fires the homeless nurtured on the outskirts of the gang war zones were full of poor souls and ex-convicts who were blacklisted and, thus, unable to find work. To them, the local crime-fighter was a topic not unlike the weather: Everyone had been impacted by him somehow, and more importantly, everyone had their own two cents to contribute.

But to Tim's dismay, none of the stories were consistent: Some described him as a demon, some a lunatic, and still others insisted that he was a flashy lie propagated by the government to cut crime. The last idea was instantly rebuked, but it had already done its job of putting a damper on the teenager's optimism.

Tim had yet to see this masked man for himself, and as much as the thought scared him, he couldn't help feeling that he'd need to confront him eventually. If he really was Gotham's savior as the papers claimed, he very well could be the only person capable of helping him.

Shoving the thoughts aside for the moment, Tim continued rummaging through the mound unhurriedly, mind still buzzing about the newspaper prints and what he'd do next, when he noticed the heavy clatter of footsteps approaching. Tim yanked his head out of the metal box, eyeing a clump of silhouettes that were sluggishly turning off the main street from about a hundred feet away. No pedestrians had dared to walk this way yet, causing his heart to skip a beat in surprise.

_Alright, Tim. Just start walking in the opposite direction. You're simply passing through._

He turned to face the other end of the alley, calmly pulling up his hood and slipping his hands into his pockets. He flinched as he noticed another group approaching from that way as well. They moved in long, swaying strides like a ticking pendulum in a grandfather clock, counting out the rushing seconds.

Two clumps of people in the same place at the same time…

It was the middle of the night, and this—this was the Bowery, a dodgy part of town.

He didn't want to be here.

Tim tried to keep his nerves from getting the better of him, glancing around at his options. All of the first-floor windows were boarded up. There was a fire escape ladder dangling a little ways away, but it would be too noticeable for him to lunge for it as it was on the opposing wall.

His exits dwindling, he made a split-second decision and spun himself around the back of the bin, soundlessly positioning himself in the small space between it and the wall.

He was just being skittish, he told himself. He'd been spending the whole day concocting theories as to why someone would want him dead. It only made sense that he was being a tad over-dramatic.

But the idea that his instincts had been onto something gradually gained traction as the footsteps came to a halt at the exact same place he'd been moments earlier. Tim waited while he nervously eyed the space over his shoulder, praying they hadn't seen him.

"What's that?" came a condescending voice.

Tim's whole body tensed.  _Had they—_

"Took it from our last gig."

He exhaled in relief.

"I thought I told you to ditch it. Can't be running around with garbage you ripped off some random bum. Gotta show some self-respect."

"Shut it. I don't wanna be hanging around here long." The new voice was whispering. "You told us you were gonna give us more specs on the shipment Just what kinda job is this?"

Tim ears perked.

"Right. A bunch of gats got snatched and are supposed to come in tonight through the harbor. East Side's been trying to edge out but've been needing more punch," explained the first voice in a hushed tone. "We just gotta get the stuff from the harbor to the safe house. We wait it out a few while the coppers are busy lookin', and after everything's cooled, we get it to the East Siders. Easy fifty grand."

"But what if we get Bat trouble? We tied to this stuff?"

"You kiddin'?" piped in a fourth voice. "Bats' been too busy chasing loonies to give us the light of day. We won't get trouble."

Someone breathed out the drag of a cheap cigarette, the smoke meandering behind the box. Tim buried his nose in his sleeves. He distantly wondered if Batman had ever been in a situation as unusual as the one he now found himself. With a self-reprimanding shake of his head, Tim returned his focus to the conversation echoing around him.

"We go to the North Dock at three tonight, scattered like we talked about. No comin' in in groups, ya hear? Come late, we do the job without you, and don't expect a cut."

The group grunted in agreement, and one after another, footsteps slipped away.

"And you. Lose that stupid thing, will ya? Gives me the creeps."

Another pair of footsteps vanished down the alley.

Tim was waiting for the last one to leave. After what felt like an eternity, something clattered hollowly to the pavement nearby, and a quick chorus of footsteps trotted off into the distance.

Tim waited for a few more minutes to be safe before squeezing out of the gap. He swiveled his head around the side to check that the coast was clear and cautiously took a step outward into the alley.

The teenager almost lost his balance on the uneven ground that met the soles of his boot, catching himself ungracefully as he clung to the bin next to him. He shot down an accusing glare at a rock he didn't remember being there before realizing what the object was.

Tim released his hold on the metal container and observed the white article with a titled head, warily lifting it from the tire-streaked cement. Blue eyes glazing over what he now recognized as a mask, he wiped at the smudged surface thoughtfully with his thumb. The snowy ivory glowed in the clouded moonlight, and two empty eye holes returned his gaze—ominously or innocently, he couldn't tell. His fingers ran over the low, petite nose, gliding over the lithe bridge and settling on the faint dome at the bottom, flat and unassuming.

He flipped it over slowly, meditatively, to look at the inside. It was disappointingly blank, but he found himself nonetheless unable to resist tracing out the oval eyes, incapable of shaking that everpresent question that occurred anytime he encountered something new: Have I seen this before?

"Didn't think I'd seen you, huh?"

Tim's grip on the object tightened as the voice hissed from behind him. Something was pressed to his head, the square end of a pistol prodding the back of his hood.

"I don't know how you knew about this place. To be honest, I don't care. But let me make myself clear, kid." The safety was clicked off. "You're not leavin'."

Tim remained silent. His breathing was short, eyes trained steadfastly ahead of him, running through the scenarios, the what-if's and what-would-be's, mind in a hundred different places at once.

He was hyper-aware of the metal's chill sneaking through the fabric to kiss his scalp, the buildings bending over the sliver of polluted sky to bear witness, the unsettling isolation of being in a shadowed room on a cold floor, blood trickling darkly down his spine, licking wantonly at his scarred flesh and wondering when he'd succumb to the calls of endless sleep…

He could hear a sound, an order. The ghost of someone from a past life burst forth from the shadows, urging his muscles to move as it shoved the logical fear aside.

_Move._

Tim felt the barrel shift ever so slightly as a finger readjusted itself to pull the trigger.

_Move!_

Before either of them had even realized it, Tim was ducking into a crouch, shoving his face into the empty recess of the mask in his hands while swirling his leg beneath the man behind him. He watched himself pounce on top of him, the adult's gaping mouth revealing his disbelief as the teenager wrestled the gun away without missing a beat, flawlessly snapping the side of his hand over a wrist and snatching the weapon.

The man didn't stay down for long, however, attempting to throw off the boy with his legs but to no avail: He utilized the momentum to sail back to a standing position and tossed the firearm in his hands behind him. It wasn't a moment later that the teenager was sidestepping a flurry of punches, backing up calculatingly to where the fire escape ladder waited for him. Grasping the lowest rung with both hands, he swung himself up to land a kick squarely on his adversary's chest, sending him flat on his back.

The dust settled.

Tim waited for a few moments, taking in what had just happened—what  _he'd_  just done.

_No. No, that wasn't—It wasn't me. It was…_

His gaze shifted downward toward his hands, turning them over as though he'd only just realized they were there.

He felt energized from the struggle, like he could push the limits of what was human and become something different, something  _more_.

Trying his best to think clearly through the adrenaline and the rush, Tim found himself wondering what to do with the unconscious man in front of him—and the gun that was waiting patiently for him on the cement at the other end of the alleyway.

The teenager eyed the firearm with a mixture of caution and wonder as he inched closer, the charming object coaxing him into raising it from the cold pavement. Shining metal winked up at him as the weapon lay reticently on its side in his cupped palms.

This simple object had the ability to cause so much harm, Tim observed, somewhat doubtful of how something so small could forever alter a person's life. The more he held it, the more he grew confused by it. Its unevenly distributed heft, its shadowy luster, untrustworthy innocence.

It all felt so…wrong.

He felt like he was looking at a stranger who had never specifically insulted him but, nonetheless, felt an inherent urge to despise. He could hear a voice from somewhere within him speaking, telling him that it was easy, the coward's way out of a fight. One wrong decision, one moment of hesitation, and it could mean the loss of a life.

_"Respect it. Understand it. Never use it."_

He turned on the safety and shoved it in the pocket of his sweatshirt before tending to the man, still sprawled, unmoving, on his back. After making sure he was still unconscious, Tim hauled him over to the fire-escape, pulling down the ladder so that it touched the ground, and tied the man's wrists to the bottom-most step with a stray plastic bag.

"I bet this is the weirdest thing I've ever done," he muttered with a nervous shake of his head, trying to convince himself the statement was true despite his growing doubts. His body was moving on instinct alone as if he'd done the same thing every day for years, the process ingrained so deeply in him that he simply watched himself, a stranger, perform the tasks with a sense of awe and unease.

Satisfied that the knot would hold, he yanked out the gun from his pocket and, plugging his ears with a finger and a shoulder, raised it above his head, firing a few shots into the cloudy night sky. He heard the barking of stray dogs from a few blocks away and noted that footsteps were either dashing to the scene or running for safety. His friend wouldn't have to wait long before the police took him in, he thought as he ran his sleeves over the handle to hide any fingerprints.  _(How do I know to do this?)_  He left the weapon there and sped up the fire escape to the top of the roof, faceless figures already turning the corner to enter the street.

Safely on top of the building, he crouched over the edge, watching for the police who inevitably would show and take in the man. They'd probably learn about the planned heist from him when he woke up and all would be well.

With the problem resolved, Tim's thoughts were finally beginning to catch up with him, hurriedly questioning everything that had happened within the past two minutes. He wordlessly pulled off his hood and removed the mask, strolling across the rooftop as he confirmed the sound of a police siren whirring closer and the slamming of car doors. He clambered up a step and onto the adjacent roof, continuing on his unconventional stroll as he considered his likewise unconventional life. The coursing adrenaline ebbed away, leaving him oddly composed in the vacuum that was Gotham's skyline.

Maybe this was the link he'd been missing, the thing that connected him to the Bat. He couldn't help but think that maybe… maybe he belonged here. Belonged with him.

Tim paused and turned the ivory mask over in his hands, looking into the vacant eye holes.

But he'd have to meet him first, and Tim had a pretty good idea how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity purposes, the mask is a Court of Owls mask. The Court is actually a New 52 addition to canon, but considering this story takes place a few months after Red Robin #26, I figured it wouldn't be far-fetched for those events to have taken place in the interim. (I remember reading a theory that the Court could've been the next arc for DickBats pre-reboot. Can't find it anymore, though Dx> Too much Talon!Dick in the way.) Oh well. I really just needed a mask of sorts for Tim, so here we are...?


	5. Emergence (II)

Bells rung distantly, echoing over the icy waves of Gotham's port district. Despite the late hour, ghastly orange crane lights colored the sky and pavement a similar hue while two beams of white watched over the shipyard from the control station. Lofty sets of smokestacks idled as they puffed clouds into the auburn sky and sung lullabies to the rocking ships.

Amidst this scene was Tim, looking down from one of the factory rooftops.

"North Dock at three," he repeated to himself quietly.

The teenager inched warily along the ledge, scanning each boat for anything unusual. Finally, he found something that looked promising. One of sleeping vessels was flanked by a set of smaller boats, what looked like police property. He was convinced that his intuition was correct when he spied a set of officers lying in wait in a black Ford, somewhat obvious considering the lack of hubcaps and the bulky antenna.

Deciding not to question how he knew that, Tim started watching the skies. It must've been after three, but there was no sign of his vigilante—or any, for that matter.

_"Bats' been too busy chasing loonies to give us the light of day."_

From all the sirens he heard at all hours of the night, Tim figured the hoodlum had been right: It certainly seemed that all of Gotham's crime-fighters had been doing good business lately. But this job had sounded important, either guns or drugs (or whatever "gats" were). Tim was certain that the Bat would show; no matter how busy he may have been, it was only a matter of time.

A part of the teenager wanted to dive in himself, but as much as he had been able to handle one person earlier, he knew a horde would be another issue: Going in without a plan could end badly for him—or the police.

And so, he waited, waited for the man he'd been counting on arriving to finally make an entrance.

The ricochets of bullets that erupted from the deck of the ship told him the raid was already underway, sending the tranquil scene into chaos. Soon enough, there were officers flooding the boat to match the number of smugglers, who were armed to the teeth with automatic rifles. Even those in the Ford had hurried to help assist.

Tim held back, still scanning the skies and even the other rooftops when no caped heroes appeared.

Batman must've been waiting, saw something more here.

Or maybe he simply trusted that the police could handle it.

Eventually, Tim retreated back to his spot behind a smokestack, noting with relief that the officers seemed to have gotten things under control. They had managed to break through to the hull of the boat, a few officers standing by on deck to cuff those they had caught.

Tim sighed out his relief with a crestfallen smile, hidden behind the mask. Although he was discouraged that Batman hadn't appeared, he was glad that the smuggled materials were going to be kept out of Gotham's gang war. He'd find another way to get in touch with the vigilante, he assured himself, a few ideas already forming.

With that thought in mind, the teenager rose from his crouch and made to head home.

An ear-splitting noise from an adjacent boat caught his attention. He whipped around, eyes widening with the realization that things had just gone terribly wrong.

A dark SUV darted off a nearby ship, crashing through the bow and onto the pier. It skidded past the empty Ford and, with a few well-aimed shots, took out its front-left tire. The officers on the deck were instantly in turmoil as they fired at the ghost of the vehicle, doing nothing but adding to the dramatic clamor of squealing tires and angry waves.

They'd had the wrong ship.

They needed someone.

The bad guys were getting away.

Had this been what Batman had been waiting for?

_Where is he? Where is he? Where—_

The realization hit Tim hard as he watched the car tear down the road.

_No one's coming._

Before the thought had settled, his legs were already moving on their own, propelling him across power plants and cranes that gradually gave way to shoddy residences and graffitied train tracks. His muscles were tiring, but a staunch determination bubbled up from somewhere in him to keep moving. He didn't have to keep up, just had to keep them in sight, he reminded himself as he jumped into the bed of a truck that was conveniently going the same direction.

He didn't know what he'd do when the car reached its destination.

But he knew he had to help.

The SUV slowed down after about five minutes— _must be convinced they lost the police_ —and continued placidly through to a sketchy neighborhood. Tim landed ungracefully on the pavement when his ride turned in a different direction and continued on foot, shadowing the car from the sidewalk until it pulled off into a fenced-in storage yard.

The teenager watched patiently from a corner, exhausted and short of breath, as one of the smugglers exited and unlocked a chained gate, letting the vehicle pass through before securely bolting it again.

Tim emerged from behind the wall as the SUV slipped into a garage.

Here was where he needed a plan.

He glanced around the area, wracking his brain for ideas. His odds here were better than with the dozen or so people that were on the ship, but still… He was in their territory. Disadvantaged.

He recalled a telephone booth he'd seen a ways back, considering calling the police.

_No._

The pervasive thought that perhaps Batman had foreseen this turn of events tugged at his mind. The man could have other plans, plans he didn't want to spoil by tipping off the cops.

Tim nodded and scaled the fence as quietly as he could. He'd get close, see what was going on before deciding on any further course of action.

Within the span of one minute, he had snaked his way up through a contiguous storage unit and made the short trek across to the other rooftop, peering down through the skylight. Blinking down through the fogged window, he could make out a group of four silhouettes, illuminated only by the moonlight.

The teenager's brow knit together in frustration.

They were talking, hurriedly scurrying this way and that. Bags and boxes were being tossed haphazardly into the back of the SUV while the person he assumed to be the leader was obviously upset, only his muffled consonants slipping through the glass.

Tim moved to raise one of the window panes, holding his breath as he slid it slowly upwards.

It did the trick. The freed sound rushed up to greet him, and Tim eagerly bent closer to listen in.

"—mmit! He ratted us out!"

"We shouldn'ta trusted him! He was too fresh for this kind of job!"

"It doesn't matter right now. The cops could be on us any second. Forget the deal! Get whatchya can in the car, and let's go!"

Someone slammed the trunk shut and gave the area a quick once-over as though to make sure they hadn't missed anything important.

They were going to disappear for good.

Tim looked away for a moment, still hanging on to the hope that the Bat would emerge. He glanced behind him only to find that he was still totally, painfully alone. No caped shadows, no crazed crime-fighter to swoop in and save the day. It was just him: a seventeen-year-old boy in way over his head.

The only solace he found was in an empty gust of wind. It played teasingly with the edges of a navy tarp that covered the shorted electrical system, flicking the fabric beckoningly, calling him to think, to plan, to find a solution. Tim observed the torn edges of the plastic cloth with wide eyes. A scheme taking shape in his mind, Tim was drawn to his feet, taking the heavy cloth in hand.

_This—this could work._

Wrapping the fabric around his shoulders, he tried his best to recall how the people he listened to on the street corners described the Bat.

_"He was fast. You wouldn'ta even known what hitchya before you was in the police car. A real demon."_

_"Large. He had these wings, ya see. They'd block out all the light, so you'd only be able ta see a shadow. By then, we all knew. We all knew it was too late."_

Tim nervously gripped the edges of his make-shift cape and took careful note that the group was still below.

_I must be out of my mind._

He spared one last look at the barren skyline behind him, still painfully void of any help, before taking a calming breath.

_Here goes._

As soon as he dove into the skylight, it was like he'd broken into a different world.

The sound of shattered glass rung in his ears like a clap of thunder, broken shards dancing around his shadowed form, catching the sparse moonlight that filtered in behind him. Tim fanned out the fabric that trailed behind when he knew he had the group's attention, eclipsing the shattered skylight, the only glimpse any of them had at the cloudy night.

"It's the Bat!"

_All according to plan._

Reality pulling him down to earth, the teenager landed confidently on top of two of the men, taking out another with a swift elbow to the gut.

He had to be fast, couldn't let them catch on that he was a fraud.

There was one left.

A gun clicked.

_There was panic and a need. A need to protect someone._

_Twisted laughter rung in his ears._

_He had to tell someone something. Important words. He couldn't leave before then._

_But why was there so much screaming?_

Click.

_There was a room, a room at the end of a hallway. It raced toward him in syncopated flashes. The open door called to him, told him to peak inside when he already knew what was waiting—_

A dull throb called Tim back to himself.

A cluster of mangled, motionless bodies lay sprawled at his feet. Something warm was trickling down his thigh and into his boots.

He blinked down at the figures.

He couldn't remember what had brought him to where he now stood. It was like he'd been possessed, that long-forgotten ghost inside him swallowing his conscious mind, orchestrating him like a mute puppet.

He fingered his leg.

Red.

He shook off a shiver that followed the iron smell and pulled himself together enough to check on the people in front of him.

Uneasy breaths rocked the shapes, and as much as they had definitely seen better days, they were all still alive.

Relieved, Tim brought his hand to his head, trying to blink away the faint images that had flashed before his eyes like sporadic photographs.

He was in the storage yard. These people were smuggling something.

Criminals.

He had been fighting criminals.

His mind reverting back to sanity with one final, thick breath, Tim staggered forward to rest against the back of the SUV, ripping a thin strand of the tarp on his shoulders and wrapping it around the bleeding gash along the side of his leg.

_Lucky it's just a graze._

He gave the bandage an approving nod and walked as best he could to the open driver's side door, popping the trunk. It was stacked with ominous containers and duffel bags. Tim took them in with a tilted head before cautiously prying open one of the cases. What  _had_  they been dealing?

A family of black guns looked back at him accusingly as though asking why he had disturbed them. Six lanky barrels jutted out from each gun, bulky belts of ammunition lazily lounging beside each set. Tim closed the case decisively and shoved it to the side to inspect another case.

_More guns._

Tim slammed the second case closed in disgust, accidentally toppling a precariously-positioned duffel bag. It landed with a soft thump in front of him.

The teenager noted the light sound with interest, unzipping it to look inside. A few loose bills tumbled out. Tim didn't want to know how these people had gotten so much money, the rest of the bag stuffed with wads of cash.  _Probably from dirty jobs_. He didn't want anything to do with it.

His stomach grumbled in disagreement.

Tim let out an exasperated sigh, recalling that he'd have to dig up some medical supplies for his new wound, too, and he hadn't eaten all day…

Hating himself, he stuffed a stack into his pocket as he turned to face his other problem.

The teenager looked down at the group, wondering how to get the GCPD's attention so these people could be picked up. Firing off a gun could work, but considering the hour and the location, he couldn't be certain that anyone would call 911. And gunfire had a tendency to draw more unfriendly crowds in this kind of area.

Dismayed as he crossed off his go-to option, Tim shrugged off the awkward cloak, eyeing the fraying ends as though they would yield a solution if he simply stared long enough. As he watched the lifeless fabric, he was distantly surprised at how easy it had been to convince these people that he was Batman.

Tim looked up.

"That's it," he breathed, mouth breaking into a faint smile.  _Kill two birds with one stone._

He scurried out of the building and back into the fresh night air. The streets were still deserted given the fact it had to be almost four by then, giving Tim the freedom to dart between the roads, searching for something he'd recalled seeing earlier.

Tim's eyes locked on the telephone booth, grimy glass glowing, on an abandoned street corner. He smoothly slid into the opening and began punching in the square keys while eyeing a PSA glued to the inside of the door:

(1) Emergency calls to 911 are connected immediately at no charge.

(2) Unanswered calls will not be charged.

(3) Calls to toll-free numbers….

A woman's voice rung in his ears, asking him what emergency he had.

Refusing to let his nerves get the best of him, he put on the coldest voice he could muster and relayed the two sentences he'd been perfecting over the past few minutes. "There's a group of unconscious arms dealers inside of Garage 9 off the intersection of 5th and Cedar."

He mentally reassured himself his plan wouldn't backfire.

"Batman took them down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gun mentioned here is a XM556 Microgun, a type of gatling gun that, as of 2017, is only available to military and law enforcement.


	6. Emergence (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've considered writing and re-writing this chapter differently a long time for reasons that will quickly become obvious, but at the end of the day, this is how DC has written Bruce for years. I'm especially working off the framework of post-A Death in the Family and A Lonely Place of Dying comics, which...yeah. :/ The main problem with DC (outside of the obvious fact that these things happen) is that they never address it afterward. The stuff that happens in this chapter? Yep. It definitely gets addressed later on.

_If that didn't get his attention, I don't know what will_ , Tim admitted to himself as he waited for his quarry to appear.

The city was sluggishly coming to life, groggily shaking off the memories of the night as though it had all been an easily-forgettable dream. Gravel shifted from down on the streets as sleepy cars lumbered down busying roads. The night sky was beginning to lighten, the stars, already choking on polluted clouds, fading silently into the silver backdrop of Gotham's skyline.

Tim soaked in the twilight breeze as he waited in the shadows.

_He'll come._

He repeated the mantra to himself over and over, could feel it in his bones; there was no way he wouldn't be here this time.

_He'll come._

The site below had been evolving into a crime scene over the course of the past thirty minutes, complete with a swarm of police cars, ambulances, weary-looking officers with their morning coffee (Tim noted the beverage with envy. He could practically feel the heat from where he sat beside a rooftop exit.), the area neatly tied up in a long strand of yellow police tape.

The teenager watched silently while trying to liven his fingers with his breath. Without the excitement and adrenaline, he now found himself shivering in the wintry cold, wrapping himself awkwardly with the tarp he had decided to keep for that express purpose. Although he missed the escape the darkness offered, Tim looked forward to the warm sunshine that morning would bring.

Morning.

He prayed the vigilante would still be patrolling, would have enough interest in his mysterious doppelganger to investigate despite the early hour.

An unexpected streak of pain shot through his leg like the ringing of a large church bell, ricocheting into his toes and back up into his hip. He winced at the pulsing sensation, untangling the navy fabric around his leg to check on his newest injury.

Although it stung like fire, the clean line wasn't as severe as it could have been, the black Kevlar armor he had kept underneath his clothing absorbing most of the blast. Nonetheless, he'd have to get some medical supplies and clean it out. He retied the strip of cloth and wondered absentmindedly what he would need while he eyed the horizon tiredly.

Tim almost jumped out of his skin when two black forms dropped from the sky, slipping perfectly through the hole in the skylight that he himself had made not even an hour earlier.

_Was that…?_

Rising to his feet in anticipation, the teenager hated that he couldn't see what was going on inside the storage unit, waiting nervously for the pair to reemerge. Apparently, the business the duo had had was short, as not five minutes later they were landing on an adjacent roof. Tim kept low and watched the pair with wide eyes, not daring to move from the scant shadows cast upon him.

Gotham's Dark Knight.

Now that he had seen him for himself, Tim understood why everyone had been so afraid.

The man was larger than he'd imagined, a wall in human form with broad shoulders and legs like columns. Two spikes speared upward from the sides of his mask like knives, and his glowing white eyes glowered ahead, omniscient and threatening. A sinister cloak licked at the heels of his boots as he walked.

Someone was trailing behind him with wide gestures.  _A kid?_  He had to be. The boy hardly came up to the man's torso as he stalked the vigilante like an enraged specter.

Tim strained his ears to catch bits of their conversation.

"Nightwing can investigate this," the man growled. "We've got other things to deal with."

The boy folded his arms with a snort. "And by 'things,' I assume you mean 'him?'"

Silence.

"Batman, I am as upset as you are, but you—you're not well."

More silence. The Bat hadn't turned around, had kept walking forward without a sign that he'd even noticed the boy who was following him.

Frustrated by the lack of response, the child kept digging. "What are you going to do when you confront him next? Attempt to kill him like you did the last time? Allow him to escape again because you're too blinded by rage?"

_What is he talking about?_

"You don't understand."

The child exhaled a sarcastic laugh. "What don't I understand? That you're breaking your own code, your own rules? The very things you instilled in me, you are dismantling in yourself!"

"I'm doing what I have to," the man said curtly, still looking ahead as he walked.

"And what might that be? Murder? A guilt-driven suicide mission?"

"You can't possibly understand; you're still just a child."

"And you're a fool if you think that I don't want him dead too! I was the one who saw it, saw him…!" The boy went quiet for a moment before coming back with twice as much vigor, spitting out his next words like poison. "You're too self-righteous to believe that anyone else can understand your suffering! And you're too conceited to realize that you're doing the exact thing you swore to your parents you wouldn't!"

_Smack!_

It took Tim a moment (the child as well, it seemed) to process what had just happened. The boy's face was twisted to the side, cheek already flushed from the sudden contact. Towering over him, his partner breathed out a word, too quiet for Tim to catch but familiar enough for him to understand.

"Go."

Without looking away, the man fired off a shot to the side and vanished, leaving his partner alone on the roof.

_"A real demon."_

Tim recalled the words before he could stop himself, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Maybe…maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

The Bat's charge eventually composed himself, pacing the roof while running his fingers through his spiked hair. After a few laps, he came to an abrupt stop, tapping his ear and talking to someone ( _a com link?_ ) while he flew off in a different direction, the flicker of a yellow cape following in his wake.

Tim gradually straightened from his hiding place, certain no one had seen him. He wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting, but whatever it had been, it wasn't this.

And he hadn't accomplished his goal of meeting Gotham's most feared vigilante, although it was beginning to seem like a fortunate turn of events for him. The more he mulled over the dialogue he'd overheard, the more he realized his worst-case scenario might be true.

Batman had tried to kill someone.

_And they'd gotten away._

Tim returned his gaze to the police scene below.

Was Tim Wayne…was he a…?

Tim shifted uncomfortably in the Kevlar armor.

_It certainly would explain…_

_No_ , he rejected.  _He's not—I'm not_ … His shoulders sagged as he heaved a defeated sigh.  _I'm not a criminal. I'm…_

The teenager watched as a group of officers loaded the confiscated weapons into an armored transport, carefully stacking each and every case. Hundreds could have died had those weapons hit the streets. And they would have had he not acted.

_I'm…_

Tim smiled weakly, standing a little taller.

"I'm a hero."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Tim's decided to be a hero! Every hero has their fair share of problems, though, and if you read this carefully, you'll know this event won't go un-investigated. In the meantime, well, yeah.


	7. Beginnings

Tim fidgeted in his spot. He'd been there for what felt like hours, but he knew it wouldn't go to waste as he fiddled with the binoculars that hung from his neck.

Night after night he'd been coming to the same place at the same time. The teenager had pinpointed it from all the articles, concluded the vigilante followed a route—the same route—every night.

Tonight, it was one a.m., and that meant Robinson Park's Forum of the Twelve Caesars. Sure enough, the Bat was alighting the mausoleum's gable roof like clockwork, resting on one of its slanted sides. His wide shoulders sloped in a pitiful way, as if all his strength was being sucked from him up into the endless sky, and his gait seemed to grow shorter, weaker, the more times Tim followed him.

_Must be getting tired._

Shoving back the twang of sympathy that struck him, Tim took a moment to scribble down the direction that he'd come from on the back of a newspaper, cataloging the complexities of the vigilante's regular patrol. It had only been a week, but he felt he was getting the hang of the route, if only a little.

He returned the broken pencil and paper to his pant pocket and pulled his binoculars back up to his face. It was a cheap pair he'd bought with a few other supplies, and as much as he hated to use the stack of money he'd swiped, he couldn't complain with the small luxuries he now owned: a rope-based grappling hook he'd managed to bargain for from someone off the street, a first-aid kit, the binoculars, and a pair of dark steel-toed boots that were a bit small but would have to do.

Nonetheless, he promised himself not to make a practice of taking other people's things, even if they were criminals, and would try to stretch the little he did have as far as he could. If worst came to worst, he could make it on nothing: He had survived on no cash before—even if he hadn't enjoyed it.

The teenager slid the rope of the grappling hook off his shoulder as he noticed the crime-fighter was making to continue. He knew where he was going next (the Royal Hotel in the Diamond District, one-twenty) and decided to take his time, twirling the line to make it to a building across the street.

As he clambered south along the rooftops, he wondered where the Bat's partner had gone. He hadn't spotted him the whole week and figured the two must not have patched things up yet, if they ever would. Perhaps that explained the vigilante's sour mood. Tim let out a sigh, unhooking the grapple from a ledge. Or maybe it was something else entirely. He could never be sure.

It wasn't long before the teenager found himself surrounded by the glitzy lights of the Diamond District. Tim never came here of his own accord and for good reason: The neon signs did their best to hide the seedy workings of the place, but it couldn't mask the women who dangled on the arms of drunken customers and club-bouncers who stood menacingly with their hands on their gun holsters—as if waiting for the scene to burst into chaos.

A few shrieks from further away caught Tim's attention.

_Looks like he found trouble._

The crunching of bones and loud thuds from a nearby street told him he was right.

Landing on a distant rooftop, the teenager could make out the caped figure sending thugs flying. The shadows twisted into shapes that Tim understood weren't natural, hoarse curses sprouting from them and magnifying, beating against the surrounding buildings.

Tim distracted himself with tying another loop in his laces, anything to look away from the writhing agony the people radiated, but the sounds still flooded his ears. It was excessive, the violence. Tim could hardly bare to listen to the aftereffects, the noise calling up something within him that he instantly repressed.

And then it was silent again.

He turned his attention back to where the vigilante stood, the man's head down-turned, eyes searching the crumpled bodies like they could provide some solution to a problem that was haunting him. From this distance, he looked like a lost child, cape shifting in the stifled wind, trying to comfort him with its sorrowful embrace.

Like he did almost every time the man was quiet, Tim entertained the idea of going to him. But it wouldn't be another moment until the Batman would reassume his threatening air, the kind that said he wanted to destroy everything within reach, and Tim knew it was just a fantasy; he'd sooner go to the cops that trust someone who was possessed the way Batman was.

But it didn't mean he couldn't follow, couldn't try to understand. The two of them were connected somehow, and whether friend or foe, when the time came, Tim wanted to have the upper hand.

He let his binoculars fall despondently and gathered his things. He'd pushed his luck far enough for one night.

"Done sightseeing?"

Tim spun around in a flash, eyes scanning the area.

As if to answer his unvoiced query, a lithe figure emerged from the shadows, a knowing smirk glued to his face. The blue stripes of his black suit glowed by contrast, and his dark hair caught the sparse starlight and augmented it.

"I thought we'd taken care of you Talon scum a while back," the character continued, giving Tim a once-over through the holes of his domino mask. "Had no idea you were just changing your fashion buyers. I give you props for taking risks, but the 'high school drop-out' look is  _so_  last year." A pair of escrima sticks were now spinning in front of his chest, the smile vanishing. "It would look a whole lot better without the mask, so why don't you drop it and tell me what interest the Court's got in Batman this time?"

"The  _what_?" Tim exhaled under his breath.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of this man or his attempt at banter, but whatever he was talking about might as well have been in an entirely different language as far as he was concerned. However, this vigilante didn't have the same blood-thirsty air Tim had seen the Bat excrete when he ran into criminals, so maybe—

"Answer."

Tim froze at the sudden fierceness.

_Maybe not._

Just who was this guy? Tim felt like he should've known him from all the documents he'd read, but his brain was annoyingly empty.  _An ally of Batman, obviously._  But what was this Court he was raving about?  _Must be confusing me for someone else_. He frowned from behind the anonymity of his mask.

Then again, maybe he wasn't. Maybe this Court or Talon had been what had landed him in this mess in the first place.

He twisted his face as he considered how to reply. To convince the man of his innocent intentions, he'd have to tell him why he'd been following the Dark Knight, tell him who he was, explain how he couldn't remember—not necessarily the most believable story.

He eyed the man's offensive posture, the dangerous glint in his white eyes.

_Doesn't seem in the mood to listen either. Whoever he's after must be able to put up quite a fight… assuming I'm not the one he wants, anyway._

Tim shifted his feet slightly, sizing him up. This person wasn't as wide as Batman ( _not a brawler, more agile_ ) and a lot taller than he himself was ( _bigger range_ ). The escrima sticks broadened his range even more, but they performed better in close combat.

Tim inched back toward the edge of the roof ever so slightly.

_Keep out of reach. Can't let him get close, or I'm done for._

Meanwhile, the man was waiting patiently, watching him like a hawk without dropping his guard. "Answer me," he repeated firmly, taking a few steps to close the gap Tim had been carefully building between them.

Tim continued trying to keep out of the man's range until the sound of falling rocks rang behind him, prompting the teenager to glance over his shoulder.

His heels were flirting with the ledge while a vertigo-inducing drop grinned up at him darkly. Tim glanced back to the man across from him without moving his head, the same thought occurring to both of them as they shared a split second of eye contact.

"Don't—"

But Tim had already lept from the ledge, twirling the rope of his grappling hook in midair before tossing the line at a traffic light at the last moment. He winced as he landed roughly on the roof of a taxi before jumping into a crowd of people who were waiting to enter a club.

He weaved between appalled on-lookers, breaking off the main avenue as fast as he could. A homeless shelter was a few turns off where he was certain he'd be able to blend in. If he could just make it.

A sharp kick in the small of his back told him he wouldn't.

He quickly rolled to his feet in time to block a left-cross, the man slipping a grapnel into the blue pocket of his forearm with his free hand. Tim only barely registered the motion before he was doing his best to keep up, side-stepping kicks and catching fists.

"What do you want with Batman?" the man insisted, swinging a knee.

Tim didn't have time to reply as he brushed it aside.

He was impressed that he was able to hold his own until the man managed to knock his feet out from underneath him. Tim rolled out of the way of another kick and forced himself upward, trying to catch the breath that he'd lost when he'd hit the ground. But he knew he'd lost any advantage he could have had as he was tossed into a wall hard, the marks on his back burning at the contact, and fell to the ground on his knees.

He could feel the older man standing above him, could hear his labored breathing as he tried to catch his breath too. Tim knew he needed to make an opening.

_An opening._

A voice, his own, echoed back to him.

_"I'll make an opening, and you get out, alright?"_

Tim clenched his fists, trying to push himself back to his feet from the chilled pavement. He was pretty sure one of his ribs was broken.

Another voice.

_"I am going to be honest with you…"_

He clenched his teeth, biting back the stinging pain.

_"You're the last person I'd wish to die beside."_

He was pretty sure the vigilante was now standing next to him, saying words that came to him muffled, slow and indecipherable.

_"So, I have a request:"_

A hand was balancing on his shoulder, fingers inches away from where the mask sat on his face. Tim could see the blue on the man's forearm, the place he'd stashed the grapnel.

_"Don't die."_

The memory shattered like glass, the rest of the world rushing back to him with the force of a hurricane. Like a cornered animal, he sprang into action, shoving his hand into the pocket of the surprised man's uniform and firing the grapnel before either of them had processed what had happened.

"No, wait!"

But the words were lost as Tim found himself flying through the night air, the glittering lights of the Diamond District booming around him and then vanishing as he climbed higher and higher, leaving the rest of the world behind.

* * *

_Didn't I promise myself I'd give up stealing?_  Tim chastised himself as he observed the grapnel from his place on the apartment floor. He hadn't made any big moves for the past week, opting instead to recover from the bruises that had blossomed over his rib cage. The deep purple was fading into green, and he was able to move around a bit without as much pain.

That being said, he didn't feel as confident in following Batman anymore. His new partner ( _Nightwing_ , he guessed.) was sure to be following now, too, waiting to see if the teenager would get cocky and try for a second round.

Tim turned the grapnel over in his hands thoughtfully.

No. He knew where the older vigilante would be, knew his patrol. He'd steer clear. Play it safe.

The Bowery where he was was a place Batman rarely ever visited, save Crime Alley to the north. He could fish around here freely for information on this new crime-fighter and the Court he mentioned.

The teenager nodded to himself and meandered toward the rain-streaked window, the drops golden in the streetlight. Thunder was rumbling distantly underneath the charcoal night clouds.

_I'll start tomorrow._

A black shadow streaked down the street, not bothering to shelter themselves from the stormy onslaught.

Tim spun the grapnel around his fingers as he watched the person idly. It must've been cold outside for someone to run like that.

_Yeah, no sense getting hypothermia._

Another man shot out from the same corner, tearing down the street after the other person.

Tim stood up a little straighter.

There was something clutched in the man's hand as he ran madly, the object flashing.

_Something's up._

It wasn't a moment later that Tim had grabbed his mask from the floor and jumped through the window onto the sidewalk. He found himself instantly soaked by freezing November rain, a shiver already building in his chest as he took off after the two men, both of which had rounded a corner.

The teenager did his best not to slip as he skidded into the alley, a scream already ripping through his ear drums.

A shadow's hand was raised as it stood hunched over another, something sharp in its grasp.

Tim slammed hard into the figure, and the object splashed into a deep puddle on the pavement.

"Go!"

The victim, fear in his eyes, didn't need to be told twice, clambering to his feet and darting out of sight, the hasty sloshing sound of his footsteps the only thing left. But he wasn't the only one who had recovered. The other man had reclaimed his weapon, a manic laughter bubbling up from him as he spun around, bent at the waist and swaying slightly.

Tim backpedaled a step.

The crazed look sharpened as the giant of a man came to his full height, the whites of his sclera slanted in a sadistic smile as he raised his arm above his head, the watery shine of the object in his fist breaking through the streaks of rain.

Tim caught the man by his wrist. The pointed edge of a syringe hovered inches from his neck as the teenager tried to wrestle it away. But this guy was strong and had leverage to boot. The man's face bent down in anticipation of his victory, pressing the tip dangerously close to the teenager's pale skin.

Tim inhaled sharply, shoving the man's arm aside and slamming his forehead into the wide grin. Managing to keep on his feet for a few seconds afterward, the man eventually fell backward with a thud accompanied by the high-pitched clattering of the needle.

Grabbing his spinning head, Tim steadied himself on a wall.

_Okay, not doing that trick again._

He blinked the stars from his vision and knelt down to inspect the syringe.

"That looked like a Batman move if I ever saw one."

Tim's head snapped up.

"Been taking notes?" A familiar grin beamed down from a fire escape landing.

Tim instinctively reached for the grapnel in his pocket.

"Wait, wait!" The figure jumped to the ground, hands held up innocently. "I come in peace!"

The teenager looked him over skeptically, hands still hanging above his pocket as he slid into a standing position.

"Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day." Nightwing took a tentative step forward, hands still raised. Tim took an equidistant step back.

One of the vigilante's eyebrows perked up, head tilted in a sarcastic way. "I'm gonna be honest here. Fighting in the rain isn't something either of us would like. So, how about we call a truce, alright?" He motioned toward the syringe that sat behind Tim. "Besides, I'm much more interested in that."

Tim glanced over his shoulder at the object. The pinkish-crimson liquid inside definitely was suspicious, if nothing else. After a moment's contemplation, he stepped aside to let the man pass, maintaining a careful distance.

The blue-clad fighter pulled the syringe close to his face, eyeing it with a tired expression. "Same," he muttered to himself before pocketing it.

"The other guy got away safely," Nightwing continued more loudly, cuffing the attacker. "He's with the police now." Tim figured the words must have been directed at him as the vigilante faced him again.

Nightwing suddenly looked worried.

"He didn't get you with any, did he?"

Tim shook his head, taken aback a bit that he had cared enough to ask.

Shoulders relaxing with a relieved sigh, the man switched topics. "Just who are you, anyway?"

Tim didn't reply but didn't look away either.

The vigilante pressed on carefully. "You're not a Talon…are you?"

Tim hesitated before shaking his head. He didn't think he was, at least.

"Huh." A pair of curious eyes looked him up and down. "I saw your little scuffle with Looney Tunes here earlier. If you're not working for the Court, then why  _are_  you out here? Just doing a civil service?"

This one sure did ask a lot of questions. All the right ones, as a matter of fact. It made the teenager's skin crawl, the idea that this person was smarter than he let on. Tim had half a mind to turn and leave, but a part of him said to stay.

"Yes or no questions only, I take it?" The man rested his back against the wet brick wall, arms folded smoothly.

Tim shrugged as a rejoinder. He didn't want to talk too much. Maybe this person knew his voice, could recognize him. After all, he wasn't certain he wasn't this "Talon" as he had accused. And outside of asking if he was okay, the teenager didn't have much other reason to trust him. He  _had_  attacked him the other week.

"I can work with yes or no," the vigilante chirped, face easing into a thoughtful smile. He slid a new grapnel from his pocket and fired it. The line billowed in the wind as the man turned back to face Tim. "You still have the one I gave you?"

The teenager inclined his head to the side as if to question the statement. He almost jumped in surprise as a bark of laughter met the gesture. "Okay, okay, the one you  _beat_  me out of. You have it?"

Tim begrudgingly held out the grapnel as his answer. Nightwing would take it back, naturally. As much as Tim could recognize the object's usefulness, he also had to admit that it wasn't his. It was only fair that it was returned.

"Can you use it?"

Tim fought back his shock in time to nod.

"Great." The man flew off to the top of a building across the street. Tim remained where he was, trying to figure out why Nightwing had suddenly become so accommodating. He had to be up to something, right?

Back on the roof, the lone vigilante had noticed Tim hadn't moved.

"You coming?"

The teenager scrutinized the figure through the rain. He couldn't gain anything from staying behind; maybe Nightwing could help. He certainly seemed nice enough—despite their skirmish last week. And if Tim was honest with himself, he was curious what the vigilante wanted.

But in the same breath, was this a leap of faith the teenager wanted to make? Was finding out who had tried to kill him really worth dying for all over again?

Not daring to watch, Tim closed an eye as he raised the grapnel toward where the vigilante was waiting, praying he wasn't making a huge mistake.


	8. A Night with Nightwing

"You really got me the other day, you know?"

Tim ignored the happy-go-lucky flattery to focus on the precarious footing underneath him. The busy nighttime streets of Downtown Gotham glowed twenty stories down, skyscrapers and ornate banking buildings sprouting up amidst the rain-glistening lights of five-star restaurants and lavish hotels with tall windows and tall spires and everything  _tall_.

Tim broke his eyes from the red and gold lights of cars down below as anxiety gripped his stomach and continued to follow his company along the edge of an opera house, the salt-eroded gargoyles urging him on.

"The city sure is beautiful from up here, isn't it?" Nightwing commented dreamily, leaning over the top of a statue to get a better view. Tim wasn't so daring, keeping comfortably close to the wall.

Nightwing glanced back at him from his perch. "Don't you think so?"

Shrug.

Tim just wished the vigilante would be less casual about the vertigo-inducing drop below.

"Well, if you've lived here as long as I have, you'd grow to like it," the man continued innocently. "You grow up here?"

The teenager gave his head a considering dip.  _Maybe_.

Nightwing hummed thoughtfully before swinging off the statue like it was a daredevil's jungle gym and darted across a few other buildings with ease. He turned on his heel to wait for Tim to catch up.

 _He's testing me_ , Tim reasoned distastefully. There was no point in showing off, especially with all the rain that showed no sign of stopping.

The teenager timed himself to the beat of an orchestra that was playing inside before skipping off the opera house and jumping in between the cramped balconies of a row of hotel rooms. Before his nerves had caught up with him, he was landing on the roof of the French Embassy and then an insurance firm beside the older man.

Nightwing huffed as if to say "Not bad" and strolled along at a slower pace, allowing Tim to walk next to him. The teenager grew more curious by the minute, unable to stop looking at his companion, struggling to figure him out. Nightwing had to be waiting for him to make some kind of move, reveal himself as the criminal he probably thought he was.

Only, Tim wasn't a criminal, and he wasn't going to do anything that would prove otherwise. He'd make sure of it.

"It's not nice to stare," Nightwing teased, tapping something in his ear as he slowed to a stop beside a ledge. He balanced an elbow on his knee as he peered down.

Tim cocked his head to the side, forcing himself back into the man's line of sight as if to inquire why they'd stopped.

"Just give it a minute," Nightwing answered patiently, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

Tim turned his attention to the slow traffic at the command. Nothing seemed amiss.

And that's when he heard it.

The squealing of tires rocketed upward at him from around a street corner a ways away, an armored truck coming into view as it swerved through the faster oncoming traffic. A group of people were huddled in the front of the car, guns pointed out the window behind them, while one of them drove wildly and barreled through the intersection, turning onto the avenue parallel to where Tim and Nightwing watched. A rain of bullets followed the vehicle like smoke, the sound clashing with the screeching and honking of other cars.

Tim's eyes shot to the squad of police cars that trailed it. Despite the number of them, it didn't seem like the police were able to do much but try to shoot at the tires and warn other drivers.

That is, until something shifted in his peripherals.

Like a bolt of lightning, a figure flew off the roof and into the open air above the intersection, black and blue. It rocketed down toward the car and slammed onto the roof of the truck, instantly hunching over and gripping the sides of the vehicle as it swerved down the avenue like a bat out of hell.

Tim raced to keep them in sight.

Down below, Nightwing had rushed forward, diving feet-first into the passenger window. A clamor of yelling and shooting erupted from inside, shattering the windows with a high-pitched ringing, and before long, the truck was spinning out of control, tumbling chaotically to a halt on its side before even reaching the next intersection.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

But it felt like hours to Tim as his brain sluggishly processed what he was seeing.

His heart stopped as the smoke cleared to reveal a steaming pile of metal that used to be a car. Nightwing may have been a stranger, may have even tried to kill him for all Tim knew, but God forbid he wanted the man dead.

Without missing a beat, Tim had shot his grapnel and was clambering onto the upturned side of the vehicle. He ripped open the jammed passenger door, ignoring the clatter of broken glass, and fought through the steamy fumes to see inside. There was a lot of groaning and coughing, but none of it sounded like the man he wanted to find.

_Nightwing!?_

Tim almost yelped as a hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, a disheveled vigilante blinking up at him through the haze. Relieved, Tim helped haul the man out. Aside from a few patches of dust and a notable cut on his forehead, he seemed to be in one piece. The grime was already being washed away by the heavy rain.

"Got it," Nightwing sang as he gave him a toothy grin, waving a few vials of glowing red liquid in front of the teenager's face, same as the one they'd uncovered earlier.

Tim forced himself to seem disinterested with the find, still cross at the scare this stranger had given him, and returned his attention to the inside of the vehicle. He was surprised at the figures he could see now that the smoke had thinned: a group of well-dressed men and women—what looked like employees of some well-to-do company—laughing giddily despite the pain they must have been experiencing.

"Better get going," Nightwing suggested as police cars surrounded the vehicle.

Tim didn't argue, prying his eyes from the unusual sight as he launched a shot to follow the vigilante.

And just like that, they were back to strolling on the rooftops. Tim's mind was still buzzing about what had just happened, but Nightwing seemed to have forgotten the event entirely, talking to himself as he led them around corner after corner. It must have been a fairly normal night for him.

"Hmm, it's around here somewhere," Nightwing mused. "Ah, right here!" He pointed toward a posh-looking building. "The Millionaire's Club!" He leant closer to Tim with a wink. "They don't mind spending a little extra on heating, especially in weather like this. There's a sweet spot on the outside that's great for warming up."

Tim watched Nightwing with an incredulous look he wished the man could see. Surely, they hadn't hiked all the way through the wintery storm just for that, right? Ignoring his exasperation, Tim followed as the vigilante directed him to a large air vent.

_No, he's definitely up to something._

"Come on. I don't bite," Nightwing waved the teenager over. Tim apprehensively complied, leaving a noticeable gap between him and the other man, who had already made himself comfortable beneath the overhang of a lavish patio on the upper floor. "Yeah, just like that—so you won't get soaked."

After making sure the overhang was shielding him from the rain, Tim pulled his knees to his chest, letting the warmth flow over him. He was still a bit on edge, but he had to admit: He hadn't realized how cold he'd been.

"Feels good, huh?"

The teenager nodded.

"I heard they've even got a sauna somewhere in here, although I've never seen it myself." Nightwing tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I think that's where this one's hooked up to."

Although he was puzzled as to the point of it all, Tim was convinced that Nightwing could hold a conversation with a brick wall. And as the seconds grew longer, he found he didn't mind, listening contently as the night's chill ebbed away.

He took in the odd character and his equally odd expressions with a hint of nostalgia (Why that was, he couldn't pin down.) for a long time before bringing his attention back to the head injury the man had sustained earlier. It wasn't serious, Tim could tell, but it certainly looked painful. Nightwing wasn't paying it any mind as he continued with some unrevealing but well-intended story, hands moving animatedly as if he could act out the whole scene himself. Tim let a sigh escape him and slowly pulled out a kit from his pocket, holding it out in front of the man.

Nightwing went quiet with curiosity as he surveyed the presented case before glancing back up.

Tim pointed to his own masked forehead, silently telling him to treat the gash.

In an instant, the man's face had broken into a sheepish grin. "Thanks, but I've got someone who can take care of this back home. It can wait." The teenager pressed the kit into his hands stubbornly. "Okay, okay. No time like the present. I get it."

The vigilante popped the lid and began cleaning out the wound. "I take it you patch yourself up, then?"

Tim bobbed his head yes.

The response was met with a disapproving look and a stretch of silence.

"Look, kid," the man started slowly, setting down a small bottle of antiseptic. "I don't know why you're out here, but whatever it is, you shouldn't be doing it alone. Things are a lot more dangerous than they used to be." Nightwing looked him over a minute before fishing something out of his costume and holding it out. "If you get in a bind, give me a call, alright? Consider it a gift for the bandage."

Tim hesitated before taking the hand-held communicator he was offered, inspecting it with a dose of skepticism.

"If nothing else, at least promise me you'll go to a hospital or the cops if something goes wrong. Nothing's worth risking your life over."

Considering the words, Tim turned the communicator over in his hands and timidly nodded that he would.

"Good," Nightwing beamed, the mood instantly lightening as he returned the kit.

The silence settled back down around them as the two turned their attention to the glistening patches of watery lights that composed the skyline. It didn't bother Tim. He let his thoughts roam back to the red serum and the strange people who seemed to be carrying it. There had to be a connection somewhere, although what a group of seemingly-normal office workers had to do with it was beyond him.

"The Joker."

Startled, Tim turned to look at his companion.

"He's the one who started all this," Nightwing explained vaguely, suddenly breaking the silence without moving his gaze from the bleary horizon. He instantly appeared years older to Tim, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "He's been out of Arkham for weeks now—as you probably know. Got his hands on a batch of the Scarecrow's rejected Fear Toxin serums and has been experimenting with them ever since."

He glanced sideways to check that the teenager was listening.

"Innocent people have been doing crazy things," he pressed on. "That's understandable. But now everyone's using it as a scapegoat, claiming they've been infected to get out of serving jailtime. It makes it hard to tell who's really a victim and who's just a criminal. Plus, the serums are all slightly different, so it's impossible to create an antidote that works on all of them. It's all just a big distraction from catching…"

The vigilante ran a hand through his damp hair, smiling sadly at the person next to him. "Well, what I'm doing a bad job of asking is 'You haven't heard anything, have you?'"

Tim observed the bitter expression with a pang of sympathy. This stranger looked just as lost as he was, leaving Tim wishing he could do more than simply shake his head no.

"That's what I figured. Thanks, anyway," Nightwing exhaled, getting to his feet. "Oh, before I forget, there's something else I've been meaning to ask you."

Tim stood up as well, looking at the vigilante inquiringly.

"You wouldn't happen to be the person I'm looking for, would you?"

The teenager flinched, eyes wide.

Nightwing explained when he didn't reply. "You see, someone helped take down a smuggling ring about two weeks ago—" Tim let himself breathe again. "—Didn't leave a name. Or a real one, anyway. I've been running around in circles ever since, but the funny thing is, the only lead I've come across is you. So? How about it?" The vigilante shot him a sarcastic grin. "Feel like confessing?"

Finding himself oddly relaxed after the split second of tension, Tim let himself nod, a grin flashing across his face, too, although the other couldn't see. Had that been what the man had been after all this time?

"Ahh, so you  _are_  the new Batman in town," Nightwing joked. "It's good to know we have another crime-fighter out here."

The jovial mood dissipated as the pair's attention was called back to the stormy cityscape, a flash of lightning flickering in the distance. The white slits of the elder's mask thinned cryptically. "Just be careful. No one else needs to get hurt." Tim watched the man's back as he made to leave.

He paused at the edge.

"Hey, New Batman." The dark tone from a moment ago had all but disappeared when the man turned back to him. "We should do this again sometime. I could use the company." The vigilante scratched the back of his head in thought. "I have something to look into first, but how does two days from now sound? Meet on the roof here at one?"

Tim considered the offer. Although he didn't completely trust him, he had to be honest, it didn't sound too bad—not at all. And the two days would give him ample time to think it over, too.

Nightwing beamed when the teenager accepted. "Alright. Don't forget: Two days!" He jumped from the roof with an awkward salute, vanishing into the hazy fog down below. "Later, kid!"

The teenager echoed the statement wistfully once he was out of ear-shot.

"…Later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotham City Millionaire's Club does exist (although I'm not sure if it's in Downtown or not…), and yes, the fact that it has a sauna is its only noteworthy feature. v-(:/)-v Go figure.


	9. Plato's Cave

_"We should do this again sometime. I could use the company." The vigilante scratched the back of his head in thought. "I have something to look into first, but how does two days from now sound? Meet on the roof here at one?"_

_Nightwing beamed when the teenager accepted. "Alright. Don't forget: Two days!"_

* * *

Tim forced his eyes to remain open.

The exhaustion was slowly starting to eat at him, and for a moment, he thought he had slipped into a dream, the space surrounding him disturbingly quiet and dark. But when he shifted his legs, he recalled the familiar floor tiling beneath him and let the panic subside.

The teenager rearranged himself once more for good measure and drowsily glanced around the inside of the room. He was pleased that the store was still as deserted as it had been when he had found it, the only thing of note the musty smell of aged paper and old ink cartridges.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a peek out of a boarded-up window with his binoculars.

It seemed he hadn't missed much; everything looked the same as it had thirty-six hours ago when he'd started.

The teenager scratched at his head, trying to focus through his aggravating headache.

_"Don't forget: Two days!"_

He had been mulling over the statement endlessly from his temporary hideout, a place he'd guessed must have been a printing shop at one point—although it was impossible to tell for sure with the barren look of the place.

Tim returned his attention to a building a few roads down.

He really hoped his intuition was wrong, but he couldn't keep himself from checking it out all the same. The vigilante was a stranger, after all, and after giving Nightwing more thought, he had seemed too nice—too genuine—to be someone who led a double-life fighting the worst of Gotham's underbelly. The man had to have an ulterior motive, had to be using him somehow.

Tim directed the binocular lenses up to the rooftops before looking back to the abandoned street.

Nightwing had something he had wanted to look into before they met again. Tim couldn't free himself from the idea that maybe that "something" had been him.

He hated himself for thinking it. He really did.

But as soon as the communicator had been passed to him, that was the only thing that came to mind, plaguing him like a disease. Naturally, Tim had studied it already for some kind of tracer, but his search came up dry, leaving him only one option: to wait for someone to come investigate.

And that was how he found himself in a closed-down shop on a corner in Little Odessa, watching another store down the road where he had hid the device.

The more he sat there, the more hope grew in his chest. He wanted it to be true more than anything else, that he'd found some kind of ally in this crazy, untrustworthy world, but he also knew the world and everyone in it was just that: untrustworthy. The cynicism was recognizably harsh, but it hadn't failed him yet.

 _Just twenty more minutes_ , he promised himself. That would take him to sunrise, a time at which he figured the vigilante would call it a night and go back to living his other normal life as whoever he was.

Twenty more minutes, and he'd believe him.

He started counting out the seconds, timing it to his breathing.

Gradually, the sun began emerging over the unsteady buildings, highlighting their sun-bleached walls, grey and forgotten.

Tim sighed and lowered his binoculars.

The man had passed his test for now, and Tim had to admit that pulling an all-nighter twice in a row had sucked him dry. He hardly had it in him to exit the printing store, the bold title "Dzerchenko" the only colorful thing remaining on the outside of the building, and meander toward the other shop, reclaiming the communicator from its place with a tired exhale.

He'd go see the man later that night, he decided, pulling the grapnel from his pocket as he stifled a yawn. Nightwing had earned a bit of his trust. He gripped the communicator tightly in his hand, forcing himself to believe the words.

But until nightfall, all he could do was wait.

* * *

_The stairs seemed like they were never going to end, stretching on and on like the crawling seconds. He skidded across the landing, his brain denying what his heart already knew. That sinking feeling was pulling him down, but still, he insisted it was wrong._

_He was alive. They'd been talking not moments earlier. He couldn't be…_

Tim ducked and slammed a palm into an unexpecting jaw.

_A trail of red eked out from the open apartment door, the crimson shining darkly in the light. He chose to ignore it, pushing it back like everything else. He's alive. He's alive. He's—_

_Even when he saw the body, he wouldn't admit it. He couldn't._

_"Dad!"_

The teenager dodged a fist.

_He was next to the man now, hands grabbing at something, trying to pull it out as if the action would heal the gaping chest wound and bring him back. He only had eyes for the glistening weapon, refusing to meet the lifeless face beneath him that would never utter another word._

_Someone was behind him._

He whirled around in time to brush off a right cross.

_"Tim, it's okay."_

_No! No, it wasn't okay! They needed to get his dad to a hospital—before it was too late. He still had a chance. He couldn't give up on him now._

_"It's okay."_

_The person was pulling him back._

_No! Why weren't they helping?_

_He needed help!_

Tim tried to blink the memory away as he slammed a knee into someone's gut.

_When he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing in a metal hall. The insides of a factory were coming into view around him, what looked like a pool of glowing, red liquid spreading thinly across the floor and walls. A gunshot echoed around the chamber distantly as he did his best to hold off a horde of enemies._

Tim knocked the gun out of a hand, sending the enemy toppling to the ground with a quick kick.

_He only barely spotted the flicker of a yellow cape and red laces as a figure was falling. He'd managed to toss a smoke pellet to the ground, distracting the assailants and buying himself enough time to dart to the precarious railing of a platform and shoot a line to catch the person._

_But as soon as the line went taught, his whole body jolting forward from the sudden weight, he knew he'd left himself wide open._

_The group would have recovered from the smoke by now._

_But no one was coming._

_An uneasy feeling was twisting his gut into knots, but he didn't have time to hesitate, forcing himself to tug a length of the line back in._

_That was when he realized the feeling wasn't to warn him of the assailants— but someone else._

Someone had tossed a smoke bomb, the world dissolving in the gas.

_He whirled around as another shot resounded, but everything was dark now, too dark to see. He took a tentative step forward, searching for the boy he'd been trying to save or the person who'd fired the gun._

_"I know what you did, Tim."_

_His eyes flashed to the new presence, a statuesque shadow standing against the black backdrop. He could barely make out the sheen of the cape and the glowing eyes._

_"You saved him tonight, Tim," the man growled. "But what about tomorrow?"_

_The words echoed around in his head, pushing him to close the gap between them. The figure didn't struggle as the teenager made to rip the mask from his face, force him to look at him with his own eyes._

_"This is me, for good and bad!" he defended, the words tumbling out automatically. "This is me now!"_

_Locks of greasy emerald hair sprouted from where the mask used to be, a crazed laugh bubbling up as the figure stared him down. He could feel rivers of blood rushing down his own spine._

_"…I know."_

"Hey!"

Tim's eyes snapped to the person behind him.

Nightwing removed the gas mask from his face, taking in the unconscious forms on the ground with a raised eyebrow.

"You know," he started. "The more we're out here, the more I wish I got a better chance to see you fight. You're not bad." The vigilante stepped over a torso with a curious expression. "Not bad at all."

Tim didn't reply, still struggling to catch his breath and shake the visions from his head.

"You okay?"

Tim forced himself to nod, not sure how true his answer really was.

"Alright." Nightwing didn't sound convinced, but he didn't pry. Tim watched silently as the man bent over each figure, checking their pockets for hints as to who they were.

The dreams were getting worse. If they would only appear in his sleep, he wouldn't have minded as much, but even in his waking hours, he'd find himself in a factory or an apartment or a graveyard, reliving scenes that touched eerily on the familiar. But the worst was always that shadowy room at the end. Everything before then was fluid, sensical. And then it all shattered.

He had to keep it under control. If he was going to keep changing up his fighting style, he needed to be conscious enough to memorize the way his opponents moved, to erase anything that linked him to whoever Timothy Wayne had been.

Swallowing another gulp of air, he pushed the thoughts down and walked over to where Nightwing was. The man glanced up at him, shaking his head.

"These guys are clean. The runners were too." He sighed, coming to his feet. "Just a couple of Ghost Dragons pushing their luck. They've been getting antsy lately." He looked up to the sky. "Everyone has."

Nightwing paused for a long time before returning his eyes to his partner, tapping off his earwig with a somber expression. "Got another call. You ever been to the East Side?"

Tim nodded. He'd passed through there before, although he tried his best to avoid the area. If there was anything he'd learned from reading all of those newspapers, it was that the East Side was hot for human trafficking, drive-bys, robbery—anything; it was only good if you liked living in the No Man's Land that was Gotham's gang wars.

"Someone decided to light the East Side Clinic on fire." Nightwing frowned pointedly, pulling out his grapnel. "Wouldn't be surprised if these guys had something to do with it."

Tim stepped closer to follow, reminding himself to keep a grip on the part of his mind that was pulling him back to the visions.

It was promising to be a long night.

* * *

Finding the clinic wasn't a difficult task. The Victorian-style building was visible from miles away, the smoke mushrooming in the twilight sky. Flames shot out of windows for hours, despite the efforts of the fire department.

Luckily, it was producing no casualties. The success was largely in part to the three vigilantes who had shown up to help.

"Could use a hand here!"

Tim rushed over to help Nightwing with the unconscious couple he was supporting, handing them off to a medic when they made it a safe distance from the building.

"This is the last of 'em," the vigilante explained breathily, ash coating his face and costume.

The medic rested one of the victims on a stretcher and placed a non-rebreather mask over the person's face. "Don't forget to keep hydrated," the medic reminded as she waved over another EMT. "Last thing we need is one of you guys going down."

"Will do." Nightwing flashed her a confident grin, wiping the ashen sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "So, don't worry about us."

"Yeah." All attention was brought to a battered-looking blonde walking toward them, a smooth metal staff held in her hand. The purple insides of her cape reflected the firelight. "That's my job—although I don't remember having any  _owls_  on the family Christmas card this year." She shot Tim a skeptical glare, same as she'd done for the past few hours.

It sounded like she'd been working on the quip all night.

"Don't worry, Batgirl. He's with me," Nightwing defused, taking a step in front of his masked friend. It didn't seem to do anything but add to the tension.

Tim couldn't shake the feeling that Nightwing and this new girl weren't on the best of terms either, so he took the chance to excuse himself, slipping back toward a nearby ambulance, keeping close enough that he could overhear their conversation.

Meanwhile, the purple-clad Bat hadn't taken her eyes off the teenager when she continued brusquely. "Figured. The gremlin won't like that you've got a new friend, you know?"

"Eh, he doesn't need to know right now."

"Probably kill him if he did."

"I don't think Robin would be  _that_  hurt."

"I wasn't talking about Robin."

Nightwing relented a moment to let the girl pick the next topic of their strained dialogue.

"Speaking of, I haven't seen him around lately." She rested the end of the staff on the cement before deciding to clarify. "Robin, I mean."

"He's been with the Titans."

"Got it." She finally took her gaze off Tim and decided to pin down Nightwing with it instead. "The kid still feeling guilty about it?"

"Something like that."

"Probably best for him to spend some time away. The space'll do him good."

"Yeah." Nightwing returned the woman's look with a somber expression. "What about you?"

"Been busy."

"Still looking?"

"Of course." The answer had come out a little too fast.

"…Find anything?"

Batgirl paused, her face tightening. The two watched each other for what felt like an eternity, staring each other down like they were on the verge of declaring war.

"Batgirl," Nightwing finally relented. "He was family to me too. You know I want him to be alive as much as the next person—" Tim flinched. "—But Robin's already said that… Maybe you need to consider that he's—"

"No," the girl snapped tersely. "No, in answer to your question, I haven't found anything yet." She turned on her heel, a line already fired to leave. "Have fun with your new friend."

Nightwing dipped his head defeatedly while the girl flew off, smoothing a hand over his hair. Tim left the vigilante to his thoughts for another minute before reappearing, observing him quietly. All Nightwing could offer him was a drained smile.

"We should probably be going too. We've done all we can here."

Tim didn't argue as the man led them back to the rooftops. Everything was surprisingly silent, only a few car horns sounding in the distance.

After it became apparent that Nightwing wasn't in the mood for talking, Tim resigned himself to fiddling with the communicator the vigilante had given him a few days ago. With it, he still carried a bit of doubt and curiosity as to how their absurd partnership would work out. But in this moment, though, both of those feelings vanished in the unspoken frustration that surrounded the person in front of him.

Tim shifted his attention up toward the vigilante. It didn't seem like they were going anywhere in particular, just walking to walk.

Until suddenly, Nightwing stopped.

Tim stopped too, eyes unwavering as the vigilante sat down right where he had been standing.

"Do you…you think we could take a break for a minute?" He looked over his shoulder at Tim before he offered lamely, "That fire took a lot out of me, you know?"

Tim didn't press him for the real reason.

The way man's forehead fell tiredly into his hand said it all; the waves of exhaustion that radiated off him—that had been since they'd left the fire—were gradually washing him away.

Tim could put two and two together.

_"He was family."_

Past-tense.

_"Just be careful. No one else needs to get hurt."_

Dead.

It was obvious whatever had happened was recent, that it was creating divides that were pulling Nightwing in fifty different directions at once.

Tim let his sight escape to his feet, not knowing how to offer any sympathy.

Sure, the teenager kept reliving nightmarish moments: the time his father had died, standing at funeral after funeral, and desperately trying to save a flicker of yellow as someone fell.

But at the end of it all, Tim didn't  _know_  them. They were people who were gone, faceless specters from the life he had left behind; as much as he mourned them in the moment, whenever he came to, he always felt eerily empty, apathetic.

And now, in front of him was a man who had  _lost_  someone, someone he had known a life with—and now would know a life without.

The teenager bit back a pang of jealousy. He wanted to be able to remember too, to grieve the ghosts of those he'd known just like the person in front of him could.

The more Tim stood there watching Nightwing, the more he became painfully aware of the abyss growing between them. He knew he couldn't understand the vigilante, didn't know the right words to say—the right things to do—when someone had died. It felt like he was frozen in place, unable to bridge the gap.

And that was what heroes—what partners—did, wasn't it? Bridge gaps.

Meanwhile, Nightwing hadn't moved, surveying the skyline indifferently as dawn licked at the buildings. From where Tim was standing, the inevitable morning rays were eating at the vigilante too.

It occurred to him then that any sympathetic words he could offer were meaningless: They wouldn't help bring back whoever Nightwing had lost. The vigilante would see the new day dawn and still find himself without that person. That cold reality was unchangeable.

But…that didn't mean the man had to find himself alone.

Tim took steps to close the distance between Nightwing and himself, silently sitting down on the ground next to him. The man didn't acknowledge him, eyes trained steadfastly ahead, but Tim felt he appreciated the gesture nonetheless, that it meant something somehow.

A comfortable quiet grew up around them.

Neither moved for a long time, both observing the coming morning as they grieved the things they had lost: one who had lost himself. And one who had lost it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plato's "Allegory of the Cave" is a famous argument about humanity's search for knowledge, asking us how much we would pursue truth—even if it would be less painful to remain oblivious. It seemed a fitting title considering that last scene.
> 
> I'm trying to tie in a few Easter eggs from Tim's past throughout this story. This chapter had a lot:
> 
> Dzerchenko Custom Printing was Ariana's (Tim's first girlfriend) father's business during Robin III: Cry of the Huntress #1. It was in Gotham's Russian district, Little Odessa.
> 
> The first flashback scene where Tim's dad died was from Identity Crisis #6. The other two scenes were ones I made up, although part of the dialogue at the end was taken from Red Robin #26.
> 
> The Ghost Dragons once tried to take over the East Side Clinic in Batgirl #56, which is why Dick proposed that they'd had a hand in setting it on fire here.


	10. Dispatch

_"…Yesterday's conference also featured billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne, who has since taken up work on the Neon Knights Program in lieu of his son, Timothy Drake-Wayne. The Wayne Enterprises CEO plans on pushing efforts to expand the organization due to recent growth in crime. This begs the question why the younger Wayne decided now of all times to disappear from Gotham. When asked, Bruce Wayne insisted that his son is pursuing other ventures in Berlin, which the family has persistently asserted since early October."_

Tim flipped casually to the next page, feigning disinterest as he waited for Nightwing to return. Tim had already read through the paper twice, so by this point the only thing that proved worth rereading was the latest press interview with Bruce Wayne.

The teenager didn't know how to feel about the man's continuous way of distracting reporters from his adopted son's disappearance. From how Tim saw it, there were only two reasons why someone would excuse something like that, both answers equally dark: Bruce Wayne was either the one responsible, or he had something to hide—something so closely linked with the truth of what had happened to his son that acknowledging it would mean revealing that secret to the public.

Tim had to admit that he was skeptical of the first explanation, but he couldn't imagine what kind of secret could be so valuable…

"I'm back!" came a sing-songy voice, followed by a chipper vigilante carrying a pair of shopping bags. He had been in a good mood all night, not showing any sign that the previous morning had happened at all.

Nightwing tossed one of the bags in the teenager's direction before taking a seat beside him on the ledge.

"Don't worry, Mr. Twenty Questions," the man chuckled at the skeptical air coming from his friend. "It's just some snacks. You can eat them when you get home." Tim accepted the gift with a polite dip of his head, secretly thankful for the donation. It'd been a while since he'd last eaten.

In the meantime, Nightwing had already broken into a box of crackers, tapping his foot happily. Tim couldn't tell if the vigilante was simply putting on an act or if he was genuinely feeling better, but he didn't question it and brought his attention back to the paper.

"Whatchya doing? Homework?" The man leaned forward in interest, and Tim angled the newspaper to let him see. After all, maybe Nightwing had some input.

The vigilante observed the article with an undecipherable look. "Wouldn't have pegged you for a gossip," he commented blandly as he took another bite of food and returned his gaze to the skyline with a small huff.

Somewhat disappointed at the response, Tim set the paper aside and entertained himself with watching the pedestrians down below. He wondered what Nightwing would have thought if he told the man he was the topic of the article, that he was really Timothy Wayne.

He glanced sideways at the person next to him.

They  _had_  been out here for a few days now, and Tim figured he'd have to tell someone his secret if he wanted to get any answers. Maybe he would just test the water, see if Nightwing recognized him somehow.

His gaze on the man intensified, trying to figure out if it was the right move to make. The very thought of giving himself away made his gut twist nervously.

"Something wrong?"

Tim started when he realized he'd been caught staring, adamantly shaking his head in reply.

"Something must be." A mocking smirk played across the vigilante's face as he raised an eyebrow. "You're brooding—and I promise you, I know a brooder when I see one." He leaned back on his hands coolly. "What's on your mind?"

Tim held his tongue for a moment. _Maybe—maybe it's alright to..._  He inhaled slowly, pushing down the nerves building in his stomach, readying himself to—

Their attention was sent spinning down below where a chorus of shrieks had erupted. Tim let out the breath he was holding, feeling lightheaded from the stress of the decision he'd almost made.

"Another time, then," Nightwing transitioned smoothly, getting to his feet.

It wasn't a minute later that the pair found themselves on street-level, rounding a few turns onto a rather vacant avenue where they discovered a group of people congregating around the source of the noise.

"What's going on?" Nightwing broke through to meet a terrified man backed up against the post of a streetlamp. The person's brown eyes were practically bulging from their sockets, panickily glancing side to side at nothing in particular while sweat poured off of him in streams.

"He just came out of nowhere, screaming his head off," offered one of the pedestrians, pointing behind them. "Another one went that way."

A flash of light on the ground caught Tim's attention as he turned in the indicated direction. He raised the shard of glass from the pavement, a drop of cerise serum glistening on its edge. The teenager looked up to notice that Nightwing was meeting his eyes.

_It's Fear Toxin._

The vigilante nodded as though he could read his mind. "You stay here. I'll get the other one." In the next instant, Nightwing had vanished, leaving Tim with the group.

"And just who are you supposed to be?" one of them snapped irritably as Tim drew closer. The teenager ignored the comment and bent closer to inspect the petrified man.

He was shaking uncontrollably, irregular breathing racking his whole body, and his brown irises—vaguely familiar—were still spinning.

"Stay back!" the man barked, swinging his arm defensively as he pressed himself further into the lamppost. "I'm not afraid of you!"

_Definitely a bad batch._

Although it was only his fourth time out with Nightwing, Tim had already seen this kind of serum before. Some misguided folks got it in their heads that the serum was an enhancement drug, removing any kind of natural flight response. In part, it was true. But there were also variants that amplified it, made someone so afraid they couldn't even move. That wasn't all, though. Nightwing had told him of people who hadn't taken it well, had gone brain-dead—or just dead.

Tim glowered at the shard of glass still in his hand.

There was no way to tell how this one would react either.

He glanced back to the pedestrians behind him, deciding to cast aside his silence for only a moment. "Call an ambulance."

A strong hand shot out from in front of him and grabbed his wrist hard. Tim spun back to find dilating pupils were digging into the eyeholes of his mask as if they could see straight through it, could both see him and knew him.

"Y—y—you're—" the man stammered, choking on the pronoun as he tried to force a sentence from his throat. Tim watched in horror as the man's brown eyes slowly slid upward, leaving only white. "Red…red…"

_Red serum?_

_Red blood?_

"Red…"

_Red what?!_

The man's grip slackened until the hand fell to the pavement, his sclera wandering absently from Tim's face, and his lungs released one last puff of steam into the wintry air.

He'd been talking about him. Tim knew it, could feel it.

An irrational urge boiled up to shake the man until he finished, force him back to life as if he was simply asleep. This was what he'd been searching for—some clue as to who he was—and now it was gone.

The frustration fading into disappointment, Tim pulled himself to his feet. He was distantly aware of the horrified people behind him but was too consumed by his thoughts to give it much notice.

The one Nightwing had gone after was probably at death's doorstep too. He vaguely recalled that he should go see if his partner was alright.

Tim's eyes widened.

_The other one! Maybe they know—_

He was skidding down the path Nightwing had taken before he could finish the thought.

"He got away!"

"What do you mean!?"

Tim registered the voice as Nightwing's, although it sounded angrier than he'd ever heard it. The voices were getting closer.

He spun around another corner.

"We—we didn't tell Boss until tonight…!"

The blue of Nightwing's uniform was menacingly hunched over the other figure.

"What happened!?"

Tim barreled across the street fast enough to rip Nightwing off the other man, who he'd had pinned up against the wall. The teenager could already tell he was too late. This person was choking on his words too, coughing up frothy spit as he struggled to respond.

"Robin…"

Tim was still holding Nightwing back as they both waited on bated breath.

"…wrong."

The scarred face went slack and slid to the side, motionless.

Aside from a black cat that slunk across the road, it was only the two and the man that sat before them on the wide street. The pair watched the lifeless form for what felt like a lifetime.

Eventually, Tim let go of Nightwing defeatedly, the teenager's arms dangling uselessly at his sides as he let his head fall. He hadn't learned anything more. Nothing red. Just jumbled sentences that could add up in fifty different ways.

"Robin was wrong."

Tim spared a glance at Nightwing, who echoed the sentiment as he slipped to his knees. The vigilante looked like he was on the verge of some revelation, scrutinizing the sidewalk just as Tim was beginning to scrutinize him.

"But does that mean he's…?" Nightwing's attention flickered back to the corpse. "Is he still…?" He seemed too shocked to even finish the sentence, frustration seeping from every inch of his being as he made to shake the figure back to life.

Tim jumped to stop him, and Nightwing's gaze shot to his partner, taking him in with a look of disbelief. At first the teenager thought he'd simply forgotten he was there, but Nightwing didn't look away, his stare penetrating and unnerving. It was like he was seeing him for the first time.

An uneasy feeling was tearing at Tim's chest. He made to take a step back, but Nightwing was standing over him in a flash, holding him roughly by the shoulders like he could shake the dead man's answers from the teenager instead.

"Who are you?"

Tim was too stunned by the sudden, desperate change of tone to answer.

"Who are you!?"

"Nightwing!"

Both heads turned up to the new arrival, who landed roughly on the pavement before staggering to a stop. The blonde looked like she'd had a long night, her cape shredded along the edges, and a small trickle of red leaked from a cut on her abdomen, clashing with the purple of her costume.

"What is it, Batgirl?" Nightwing may have been looking at the young woman, but Tim was painfully aware of the fact that the vigilante's focus was still glued to him.

"It's bad," Batgirl breathed exhaustedly, holding her stomach. "Batman just caught wind of where Joker is. I tried to talk him out of going, but he won't listen to me!"

Tim could feel that Nightwing's full attention was now on the words tumbling from Batgirl's mouth.

"And to make matter's worse, Red Hood's back. Word on the street is he's making a pass at Arkham."

"When?"

The girl pointed helplessly to a foreboding red cloud that was hovering to the north.

"Now."

It was probably where she'd been heading before she ran into them.

Nightwing's grip on Tim's shoulders eased when he looked back to him, searching the dark eyeholes of the teenager's mask. He looked like he couldn't bring himself to leave until he'd had his answer.

Nightwing finally spoke in an apologetic manner, his voice quiet enough so only the teenager could hear. "I understand if this is something you have to do…" His grip slid from Tim's shoulders to his arms, a tad friendlier, maybe even imploring. "…but can I still ask for your help?"

Tim was confused by the sympathetic tone. It felt like Nightwing had drawn a conclusion from information the teenager didn't have access to, like they were now cohorts guarding some mysterious secret.

Tim eyed the man for a long time before offering a noncommittal nod, struggling to decipher what'd just transpired between them.

Meanwhile, Nightwing talked to the other vigilante without looking away from Tim. "Leave Jason to me. You two find Batman before it's too late."

"Nightwing,  _you're_  the one he needs right now! You're the only one who can—"

"No," Nightwing shook his head faintly, his focus sharpening on the teenager in front of him. "No, I'm not the one he needs."

He let his hands fall from Tim's frame. The teenager observed him with an air of confusion, attempting to read the man's expression to no avail. In that moment, he would have given everything to know what Nightwing was thinking.

"We don't have much time." The man eyed the horizon with a dark look, firing off a line. He hesitated before going, turning his head to the side without making eye contact with either of them.

"…Take care of him for me, will you?"

"Sure?" Batgirl volunteered after sparing a glance to Tim. He wasn't quite sure if Nightwing'd been talking to her, but it was too late to ask more.

The man was already gone, lost to the night.


	11. Fideism

"What've you got for me, Oracle?"

The girl had been talking with this "Oracle" for the past fifteen minutes, too preoccupied with locating Batman to give her new friend much mind. Tim figured it beat the judgmental stares he'd received their first meeting, so he didn't complain. It was nice to have at least one unnerving thing going for him, and he tried to get lost instead in the heady breeze and the feeling of being suspended stories high.

On any other night, he figured that would've been enough to distract him, to reel his thoughts back in to the urge to keep steady against the overwhelming updraft of wind. But of course, his brain kept whirling, turning over the scraps of details he'd learned twenty minutes ago into any form that he could make sense of.

He shot another line, shaking off the numb, white eyes that were still burned into the back of his brain.

Red.  _What types of things are red?_  Tim's face twisted in thought. It had to be something important, valuable enough to voice as someone's dying words.

_Blood, roses, fire, cardinals, the serum that's been circulating for nearly two months._

No. No, something about those didn't seem right—even though the last one was a definite possibility… Something about the words, though, about the intuition that the man had been talking to him and him alone, made Tim certain he'd been revealing something outside of the obvious or commonplace.

Maybe Tim was thinking about it all wrong: The man could've been talking about a place. A restaurant, a park, a street? There was a Krasnyj Boulevard in Little Odessa he'd seen a few days ago.

Tim glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Russian neighborhood, some primal part of him ever-attentive of the line in his hand and the threat of gravity dragging him down. But gravity wasn't affecting one thing that night, and that was the part of the sky that remained stained a smoky maroon, rising further and further into the air to the point where it practically curled above them. If that wasn't enough to be unsettling, the color reflected off the glass windows of every building they passed—like it was invading the structures, watching them from the inside and waiting to pounce.

It made it harder and harder for Tim to keep his mind off the one thing he didn't want to think about: that Nightwing was gone, having vanished somewhere in that direction and, more importantly, had left Batman to himself and the blonde leading the way in front of him.

There was only one reason Tim could accept for Nightwing having insisted so fiercely that he be the one to confront this new threat, and that was that this Red Hood figure was a strong opponent, bigger than what the police could handle and that—

_Wait._

Red.

_Red Hood._

Tim felt his breath hitch in his chest. Was that what the man had been trying to say? Had Tim simply been mistaken for someone else? The teenager hadn't seen this Red Hood for himself, and Tim did hide his hair with a hood...

He released the shaky breath. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe he'd simply been confused for someone else, and the whole thing hadn't been about him at all.

"Got it," the girl swinging beside him commented suddenly into her mic. "We're heading there now." Batgirl shifted her attention to Tim as she gestured for them to turn down a different street. They must've finally gotten a lock on where Batman was.

Tim swallowed down his nerves as he reminded himself to keep focused on where he was shooting his grapnel. He'd barely even realized they'd traveled so far, as they had somehow found their way to the Bowery, shoddy tenements and sketchy convenience stores lining the streets. Bold neon lights only served to emphasize the cracked sidewalks and splotchy pavement, the disarray having a monotony about it that made it all repetitive and easily forgettable.

Tim felt fortunate that the fractured window pane of his hideout seemed equally uninteresting to Batgirl as they swung past it, more of his tension easing when they turned north up another boulevard, leaving his secret home behind. But even then, he couldn't shake off the inner turmoil that was ripping at his chest.

 _Crime Alley's this way_ , Tim recalled tensely, slipping back behind Batgirl a fraction. He really wished Nightwing was with him instead. But he had his mission, and they…they had theirs.

It almost felt surreal: He was going to face Batman, the person he'd watched for days on end, admired but was also terrified of. He hoped it was a simple misunderstanding, that Batman had tried to kill someone who wasn't Timothy Wayne.

_"What are you going to do when you confront him next? Attempt to kill him like you did the last time?"_

Robin could've been talking about the Joker. Was that what Nightwing had asked Tim to do? To save Batman from making a mistake, keep the Joker from taking advantage of a momentary weakness that Tim still couldn't quite suss out.

_"The Joker. He's the one who started all this."_

_"Batman just caught wind of where Joker is."_

It was certainly where Tim and Batgirl were going now. But, then again…

_"It's all just a big distraction from catching…"_

_"Who are you!?"_

_"You can't possibly understand; you're still just a child."_

_"But Robin's already said that…"_

_"Robin was wrong."_

As if to save Tim from thinking himself to death, Batgirl recalled her line and slowed to a stop on the pavement. "Here," she announced despondently, sizing up the building in front of them with a grave countenance.

It seemed the home was recently-remodeled and hardly lived in—sticking out like a sore thumb as it sat tucked away inside the otherwise-impoverished heart of Crime Alley. A few shrubs sat forlornly beneath a pair of bay windows, the red clouds meandering across the glass there as well. To a shallow observer, it may have even appeared the panes were dancing with fire.

Something about the thought made Tim's skin crawl, but Nightwing had asked him to do this, knew something Tim didn't but desperately wanted to find out. So, the teenager bit back the premonition and resigned himself to observing the blonde next to him. She steeled her face as she stepped closer to the building, noting the double-doored entrance like she was trying to keep herself from getting emotional. Tim surmised she knew the place.

"The alarm's been tripped just like you said," she muttered into her mic with a thick voice, the soles of her boots brushing over the cement stairs that led up to the doors.

Tim's eyes flickered between the entrance and Batgirl, whose halted footsteps echoed emptily in the alcove as she watched the door with a wary expression. She pulled out her staff, signaled for Tim to follow her lead, and pushed open the door with a silent exhale, the pair stepping into the sliver of light that fell on the dark entryway.

Once Batgirl switched on her flashlight, it immediately became apparent that they hadn't been the only visitors to the place that night. All the furniture was overturned, inky shadows cast on every piece as the circle of light glazed over them, catching in the bits of shattered picture frames on the floor and the splintered chandelier above. The edges of the light beam traced the walls, mourning the photos that had once hung there, when something else became visible, a speck of green on the fringes of the light that both of them knew didn't belong.

After a tense moment, the light swung over the wall to take in the rest of the message, a lunacy dangling off each letter where emerald paint ran down in thick drops.

IT'S A SURPRISE

Batgirl eventually lowered her flashlight with an irate snort and reported to Oracle that neither Batman nor the Joker were there. "But Joker definitely was here a little while ago. He messed with his stuff," the blonde growled, taking in the message that proved her hypothesis. She weaved through the maze of furniture to the other side of the room—disregarding the pieces of pottery and glass that were crackling under her feet—where she started analyzing a vacant aquarium. "That still doesn't explain why Batman's  _tracer's_  pinging here while  _Batman's_  not."

As she continued her search, Tim's attention was split between another clue the blonde hadn't seemed to notice yet: There was a faint odor that prowled the interior, more than just the smell of spray paint, the novel scent nipping at Tim's eyes and nose. He hesitantly breathed it in in short sniffs. The smell brought to mind cosmetics and cleaning supplies, things that normally wouldn't have caused him any concern, but the faint prickling sensation on his cornea told him to check it out regardless.

Tim took a tentative step forward followed by another and another. _It's stronger closer to the ground_ , he noted from his crouched stance as he shuffled closer to the source.  _Denser than air._

Batgirl's voice drifted over through the pitch-black space, unaware that Tim had abandoned his spot in the entryway, "No. No, I don't think Joker found his cave. Nothing's been tampered with other than the furniture and wall." The blonde shifted something. "Doubt the creep even knew he had a hideout here."

Tim filed away the conversation as he followed the fetid trail into what he made out to be the kitchen, carefully stepping over the remains of silverware and mugs that littered the shadowed floors.

It was definitely nearby. The closer he came to the source, the more the smell reminded him of white lab coats and embalming fluid, IV bags and…

He closed his eyes for a moment, dimly curious as to why playing cards had come to mind.

 _Formaldehyde_ , his brain registered, the diagnosis tethering his thoughts back to reality. It was something that would diffuse into the air pretty quickly if it was only for household uses. But if it wasn't…maybe used as a preservative or…

A clock echoed from somewhere in the void, apathetically announcing the passage of each second. It made a phantom chill run down the teenager's spine: Being reminded of time was like being reminded of one's own mortality, own solitude. Batgirl's conversation with her teammate was so distant that it hardly breached the area in which Tim cautiously continued ahead alone.

_Here._

His eyes had adjusted enough that he could tell it was a broom closet. Far away from prying eyes, it was tucked away in the farthest recesses of the flat, inconspicuous and innocent. The observation contrasted grossly with whatever he assumed he'd find behind it.

_It's a surprise._

As Tim rested his hand on the doorknob, he noticed with a twinge of nausea that the space was large enough to fit a corpse—or multiple.  _Focus_ , he reprimanded himself, thumbing the knob as he coaxed himself into turning it.

It almost felt like the clock was getting louder with each passing moment, like the room was determined to emphasize that there was a lone teenager caught in the dark and about to find something that he'd never be able to un-see.

It wasn't until the door started to swing open, though, the hinges yawning slow and long, that Tim processed what the Joker had really been doing there, the glow of a timer in the single digits screaming out another attribute of formaldehyde's biproduct.

It's explosive.

"Hey! What are you—"

Tim had barely managed to tackle Batgirl through a window as the bomb went off, the entire apartment up in flames not a moment later. He realized belatedly that he'd been too quick to get out, so much so that he didn't think of anything past breaking through the layer of glass, suddenly caught in the wave of the explosion. It sent them both crashing into the pavement hard enough that Tim's vision failed, descending into a wave of spots and white pain that he processed only vaguely.

He was acutely aware that he'd made contact with the ground, gravel biting into his clothes at his back, but for whatever reason, his senses were flooded with some kind of vertigo that said he was still airborne, trapped between scalding temperatures and the icy, November air.

A sharp inhale was all it took to bring the world back into focus.

At the very least, the act proved Tim was alive, and upon shifting his limbs, he realized he was in better shape than he'd been expecting—although that didn't mean he'd gotten out unscathed. A deep cut was evident on his shoulder that hissed for him to stop moving (a casualty of the broken window), and the clock's ticking was replaced with the buzzing of his eardrums, pulsing with the rush of blood that he swore he could hear slosh as he resituated himself on the pavement. Tim blinked a few times, struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness of the fire.

"No," Batgirl's voice echoed sadly against the crumbling embers. She was already on her feet (It seemed Tim had taken the brunt of the blast.), and her vision was stuck on the sight of the burning building. "Not his home, too…"

Tim had meanwhile managed to pull himself up to a standing position. His nostrils and eyes were still stinging from the chemically fumes, but the ringing in his ears was ebbing away, a good sign. The shuffling caught the blonde's attention, who turned back to him with an expression of forced control. "You alright?"

Tim offered her a nod. The girl observed him for another moment, resting her staff on the ground for support. The cut on her abdomen must've started acting up again. "Thanks for the save, by the way." Tim gave a polite nod, the sentence coming to him sluggish and unclear, but he got the gist of it.

A span of silence slipped by before Batgirl was startled back onto her com link. "Oh, shoot! Yeah, yeah! Sorry! We're still in one piece, Oracle… Uh-huh. Uh-huh, but we still don't know where they are."

There was a long pause.

"…What do you mean the signal's moving nearby?"

Tim spared a look at the blonde, who was now much more flustered. "I'm telling you, the whole place is up in smoke! I don't think he'd…" Batgirl hesitated. Her attention was glued to a spot on the street. "Unless…" Tim followed her sight to a manhole cover. "Oracle, you don't think Bats chased him into the sewer system, do you? Please say no."

From the quick march the girl made over to the opening, Tim guessed the answer hadn't been what she'd wanted. He trailed behind wordlessly, glad that his legs still worked and that his hearing was clearing with time.

As always, there was that question rearing its head, asking him why on Earth he was out there, having almost gotten killed one minute prior. He shoved it back and reminded himself that it was his identity and past on the line and that he had to know, no matter how ugly it may have been.

In the time it took for Tim to reassert his resolve, Batgirl had made short work of the cover, shooting her new friend a conspiratorial look. "Well," she huffed, eyes darting over Tim in a way that said she was checking to see if he was really all right after the explosion. She must have been satisfied, as she offered an invitation. "You ready to smell like latrine for the next few weeks, cadet?"

Tim shook his head. Although it had initially been jarring, he gathered comedy was simply how the girl handled stress, not unlike Nightwing. The comparison made Tim feel a bit more at ease—if only a bit.

"Yeah, I'm not ready for it either," Batgirl rejoined as she slipped into the sewer, Tim following close behind.

"Latrine" was an understatement. The mildewy tunnels and nauseating smell made the place seem like a sadistic water park ride even rats wouldn't enjoy, each step through the waste uncovering new scents and debris of questionable origin.

The mire sloshed around their ankles as Batgirl slowly started to pick up speed, the watery din drumming around them. "This way," she explained, turning a corner. "There's an opening up here soon." A cluster of voices and metallic scratches bellowing from somewhere ahead carried the two into a dead sprint, the blonde giving her staff a trigger-happy twirl in anticipation.

"Stop!"

The pair instantly slid to a halt on a ledge.

Batgirl (or perhaps Oracle) had been right once again, the tunnel giving way to a fifty-foot drop where waste pooled on the bottom of the chamber. A few walkways crisscrossed between the walls and other tunnels, and the boom of rushing water was near-deafening.

"Over there!" A flicker of blonde hair shot into the air, and it told Tim to follow in the direction of another tunnel on the opposite side of the chamber. He swung off his grapnel into the entrance just in time to keep up. And, with that, it was back to maneuvering through a maze of sewer pipes until they reached a fork in the path, the noises having grown too distant to track.

"Which way, Oracle?" Batgirl spun around to take in both routes. "Oracle?" The sound of her voice and rushing water were amplified in the space, as if taunting the fact they'd hit a snag.

"I can't get through," she announced in frustration to Tim. "We must be under an electrical plant or something. It's messing with the signal." The blonde took in the divergence with a scowl. "There's not enough time: We'll need to split up if we're gonna stop Batman."

 _Stop Batman?_  Tim's eyes went wide.

("I'll go this way!")

_Weren't we after…_

("You go that way!")

_…the Joker?_

But Batgirl had already disappeared into the left tunnel before he could draw up the nerve to ask, leaving Tim to face the right path on his own as her footsteps faded away.

The teenager took a cautious step forward into the entrance, scrutinizing the brick-laid walls with newfound skepticism—like the tunnel might get even smaller if he turned his back, swallowing him whole in its molding maws. Tim was trapped between the desire to move quicker in hopes of finding Batman and getting out as fast as possible and the desire to move as carefully as his brain demanded. Eventually, he decided on the latter, shifting to the side of the tunnel where the waste was shallower and easier to wade through without making noise.

The hostile sounds he'd heard earlier had died down entirely by then: It left only the hissing of water in the channel, the moisture of it kissing his skin like a ghost. Tim shook off the feeling and that sneaking, stubborn realization that he was alone once again. It was like time had rewound five minutes back, and that sense coerced him into keeping a vigilant mental record of what street he was underneath, where sparse exits were located via storm drains, and the amount of time it would take to get to one; he didn't want anymore "surprises."

But it seemed circumstance didn't care much what Tim wanted right then, as the unsettling quiet was speared by a sharp clamor resounding somewhere behind him, the piercing scream of bullets ricocheting in the direction Batgirl had gone.

Before Tim had fully realized it, he'd whirled around in pursuit of the uproar, something that seemed to be moving further and further out of his reach the closer he came. He was so focused on the adrenaline, on absorbing every last detail of anything that could prove useful, that he almost misstepped, the eerie sensation of falling latching onto him before he hastily regained his footing.

Tim glanced down at the ground, the tunnel making it too dark to make out much, but he knew something was there that made him trip up. He hesitantly reaching down to grasp at whatever it'd been. When he withdrew his hand from the liquid, it dawned on him what he'd uncovered: the staff Batgirl had been carrying, a line of faint light shining along its metal surface.

He cast a look back on the tunnel and waited, staff in hand, as he anticipated something other than the white noise that greeted him. Tim wished lamely for gunshots, for shouting, a voice from beyond—anything other than the apathetic flow of diluted refuse, but that was all he got. That and silence.

In the next instant, he found himself racing forward once more, a desperation flooding him. Where that urgency was taking him, Tim wasn't sure, but he had to find Batgirl—if nothing more than to tell himself he hadn't failed Nightwing, hadn't failed himself, and that the girl was still alive.

It didn't take long.

A wave of relief swept over him when, by some stroke of luck, Tim turned a corner and noted the familiar points of a mask's ears lancing the air. Beams of light slipped through the slats of a storm drain up above, and the strips barely missed the crouched silhouette. It was taking time for Tim's eyes to adjust to the brightness, but the recognizable detail of the mask lured him into moving a step closer regardless, a thankful gust of air leaving his lungs—until it caught in his chest.

The figure had shifted at his arrival and showed Tim that…

No. Even in the dark, there was no way. Too tall. Too broad. Too  _familiar_ , calling up days of watching from distant rooftops and wondering how the past tied them together.

And with Batman looming ten feet in front of him, a pair of glowing, white eyes already fixed in his direction, fate must've decided that, ready or not, it was time for Tim to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krasnyj is the Romanized form of красный, which is "red" in Russian.
> 
> In Red Robin #17, Tim decided to remodel the old theater in Crime Alley and then proceeded to live there. You can see the inside of his wicked apartment in issue #25. (The aquarium was where he hid the switch to his personal cave/hideout, so that's why Steph was so interested in it.)
> 
> The chemical referenced here is Formic Acid (HCOOH). It's usually not dangerous outside of respiratory/optical discomfort mimicking that of chloramine gases and its low pH level (No touch!), but even then, Formic Acid is usually in its liquid state anyway and found naturally in our bodies as waste, so it's not too harmful. However, under the right conditions accounting for pressure and its combustibility (especially above 69 degrees Celsius), it can be explosive and very deadly. You can find more info on the CDC's website or on the PubChem database.


	12. Nightfall

Tim didn't need for Batman to draw himself to his full height, but the vigilante did anyway, the sparse light from the storm drain ghosting over the man's shoulders, ones that Tim was full-aware could break him in two with the right motivation. That awareness sharpened when the man's eyes snapped to him, watching him silently before his gaze drifted downward.

"Where did you get that?"

Tim had heard Batman's voice before, but hearing it directed at him made it hundreds of times worse. There was a cold roughness to it, one that stung like ice on skin, and the interrogative nature of the question made that sting all the more prominent.

Tim spared a glance down at the staff in his hands, the object in question. The metal winked innocently up at him as if, somehow, he and it were partners and in this together. That didn't make anything less nerve-wracking, because even if Tim could have managed to explain how Batgirl's weapon had come into his possession, he doubted his voice would've worked anyway. So, he returned the man's gaze through the eye holes of his own mask without answering, silence ever his closest ally.

But the staff must've somehow been important, as Batman took a step forward. Tim immediately mirrored the movement in reverse, gearing himself up for something—although what it was took a moment to appear—because in the time it took for his foot to slip back, to sound in the water below, the world was split by a chorus of sharp cracking and lights that shredded the darkness. Tim felt himself tackled back into the tunnel he'd just come from ( _back into safety_ , he realized), as it finally processed the outburst had been gunfire.

It fell scarily quiet again, Tim's own breathing audible. Batman's was too, the vigilante still pinning him against the wall and out of harm's way.

Not long after the bullets' song had finished, there was the dull echo of a used gun clip connecting with the water, dropped to the tunnel's floor. Tim was too distracted to pay that point much attention, his brain freezing over when he reconnected with a mask and the wide, white eyes shining through them, locked on Tim in something close to disbelief.

It was only then that Tim knew he'd made a mistake. Because somewhere in that split second before Batman could reach him, there was a bullet that should have hit but hadn't.

The staff in Tim's hands… It had moved on its own right then, the ghost of his past breathing life into it for just that moment, spinning instants before any harm could be done. And somehow, despite Tim's weeks of hiding and covering his tracks, that one second—It had undone it all.

Because Batman was staring at him with a focus so sharp it  _burned_. There was a message in the white of the man's eyes, clear as crystal, and Tim received it, feeling his mind jerk to a stop with a realization he didn't want to have.

_He knows._

_**Batman knows**._

It should have been petrifying. Weeks of lying low were gone, all that effort wasted. But for whatever reason, the thought was oddly peaceful, an inevitability as real as death, and although it left Tim—for the first time in memory—at a complete loss for what to do, his identity was out there. It was done. Just like that.

Batman continued to loom in front of him, over him, and it was all Tim could do to close his eyes. He was waiting for something more to happen, for Batman to say his name to prove this was reality, but the man didn't. Tim kept waiting and kept focused because breathing had suddenly become an easy thing to stop doing.

That moment of silence broke without resolution, as an eerie noise pierced the air instead. It was something familiar, something Tim knew he'd heard before but couldn't place.

The skin on his back prickled, and his spine went rigid like that voice had ripped out his bones and pumped in cement instead. He swore the timer of the bomb from earlier was still ticking somewhere, still reminding him that he could die in the most horrible way possible and that he'd be alone the whole time. No one would find his body. No one would even know what'd happened. And that voice…

It would  _laugh_.

That was what shot through the tunnel and Tim's veins, more real and chilling than any bullet. Because that laugh meant someone was enjoying this, enjoying pain and murder and fear, that that someone would never stop because it was  _fun_.

But it wasn't. It was mad and insane and twisted into yellow teeth and white skin that Tim shouldn't have known but knew belonged to that voice regardless, because—

He'd heard it before.

He didn't know Batman, not really, but Tim found himself gripping the man's arms anyway, his legs instantly screaming that gravity had increased and standing wasn't possible.

And then the voice…It talked.

"Ooh, Batsy," it tutted. "I didn't know you picked up a new kid already! Such a family man, you are." Something must have seemed funny, because the voice, slick as oil on fire, was in uproar, and Tim wanted to be anywhere else in the world. "I guess that means Goldilocks will be looking for a new bed to rest her pretty little head, and I think I've got one that's  _just right_ —six feet under, of course." Footsteps slashed the stream underneath them all,  _connecting them all_ , but going in the opposite direction from where they were.

A few more bullets kept Batman from running out prematurely. "I'd best go find her," the voice screeched cheerily. "I'd hate to have her miss out on such a deal. It  _is_  to die for, after all"

The water outside of the tunnel kept squirming under the gunfire for a while longer.

And it went silent.

Tim could hear his breathing again, shallower than it probably should have been, but at least his lungs could work through the frost growing in them. It felt like he was inhaling snow, ice coating his throat like it was trying to smother the air in his chest with a shrill laugh.

"Batgirl," Tim forced out. Batman knew who he was. Silence didn't matter anymore, and the girl needed help.

Batman must have understood.

"Stay here."

And as much as Tim didn't know him, had been half-convinced Batman was the enemy not three minutes earlier, he held on to him, because Nightwing had asked for something. Batgirl had thought the request was for her, but Tim… It was dawning on him that Nightwing had been asking  _him_ , asking Tim to take care of Batman because there was something wrong—more than just a maniac in love with surprises and torture and the smell of iron.

…

"I won't kill the Joker."

The sentence came slow, the timbre gravely but sincere. And Tim didn't know why, but that was the answer he'd been looking for. He knew it the instant it came.

But Tim also knew the owner of that laugh was manic and that he really did deserve to die, that Batman should probably kill him and get it over with, but… Nightwing had asked Tim to take care of him, take care of Batman—someone who could handle himself. And maybe his silent oath to Nightwing was about more than just the physical. Maybe Tim was supposed to take care of whoever was  _behind_  that mask. Because killing the Joker… it somehow would break the man standing in front of him. That was what Tim thought.

But Batman said he wouldn't, so it was okay now. It was  _okay_.

Tim let go, too drained to hold on anymore without the weight of his promise, and just like that, Batman vanished. The teenager found himself alone again with the vague gurgling of waste, churning thick as blood on the floor of the sewer.

He should stay. He should stay and wait because that was what Batman said, and Tim was alone; no one was there.

He kept telling himself that, that he was by himself and alone and  _fine_ , but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't convince himself. Because there was still that laughing— _always laughing_ —and memories swimming up of people, of familiar faces, smiling and bleeding and dying, row after row of funerals and caskets and flowers left in front of gravestones that kept spreading and multiplying no matter how much Tim tried to stop them because he could never—

The window snapped closed.

Tim was back in his hideout, staring through the chipped glass in front of his eyes.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten back.  _Was…was tonight even real?_

It was. There was still a cut dug into his shoulder from the explosion earlier, and the staff was fallow on the floorboards, shining meekly as if to inquire if Tim was all right. He wasn't. He really wasn't. Because as much as his face was burning from the frigid night air, his skin clawed red by the wind, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten back.

The thought was terrifying. He already had hundreds of things he couldn't recall, and now there was another, a twenty-minute gap in which he must have somehow found his way back here against Batman's orders to stay put. Nothing could have happened in that time span, and it was irrational but Tim was struck with an urge to check for someone else's blood on him—just to be sure, because he suddenly didn't trust himself not to.

Nothing was there. Only the stain on his shoulder from his wound and blood that was his own, but... It still stood that he was there and couldn't remember how.

Tim backed away from the window, his knees buckling when his shoulders hit a wall. The ability to stand having vanished, he slumped into the corner and ripped his mask off, still struggling to catch his breath. Needles stabbed at his lungs with every inhale, his throat raw. He felt sick.

_It's fine if I don't remember. Nothing happened. I just came back._

He knew those thoughts were true. A belief based on intuition, as always, but as much as his mind said he should just forget about it, said that he was suffering from exposure to the explosive chemicals earlier and that his confusion was due to that, his gut was saying tonight had been bad. He didn't want to hear that laugh again. He didn't want to remember.

Tim ran shaky hands through his hair. His over-used legs stung vaguely, and the injury on his shoulder was crying for attention. More importantly, he was tired—more tired than he'd ever felt in his whole life.

With a mumbled groan, he slid over onto his side, the icy plank floors sucking the heat from his body. He didn't care.

The shadows of the room blanketed him, the only source of light emanating from a flickering streetlamp further down the way. It cast the shadow of the window back in on him, imprisoning him there on the floor, as it wavered to the uneven pattern set by the lambent light, unpredictable and uncertain.

Maybe that was why Tim found himself watching the light so closely though his half-closed eyes, his brain slowing to a stop from the exhaustion but pushing to keep whirling anyway, because Batman knew who he was. That changed everything.

He had to know Tim well to be able to figure him out from just watching him twirl a staff. That staff…

The weapon smiled at him from across the room.

It'd been important to Batman, to Batgirl too. And the latter had been on a mission to find someone. That's what she'd implied when she had talked with Nightwing at the clinic. She was looking for someone who Nightwing had said was like family to him. He'd said that, and the Joker…

Tim's back stung distantly, an echo coming from far away.

There was a criminal he'd read about weeks ago, a high-risk psychotic that had escaped from Arkham Asylum in September. Then there was Tim Wayne… Tim Wayne had disappeared a month later in October, and Bruce Wayne was hiding it. He was hiding it because there was something more to the story, something he was trying to keep under wraps that the public couldn't ever know…

The thoughts were slipping through Tim's fingers, the cold floor and his chilled skin barely registering through the haze of fatigue. He tried to grapple with his reflections for just a moment longer, because he was about to hit on something, that important something that Bruce Wayne was covering up.

Batman knew Tim Wayne. He knew him well enough to recognize him by just a movement because maybe Bruce Wayne and Batman…

Tim's eyes were being pulled closed, his train of thought fading into nothingness.

_Bruce Wayne and Batman…the two of them…_

A light flickered.

_…are they…_

_…the same…_

_…?_


	13. Birds at Sunrise

" _—ere? Hey! Where…ou?_ "

Tim's eyes eased open. It was still dark, the faint light from the lamp outside shooting directly into his pupils. He snapped his eyes closed again with a grimace.

" _…ick up…you…ear this?_ "

The noise took another moment to process, but the instant it did, Tim bolted up, adrenaline rocketing through his veins. That voice... He recognized that voice.

Ignoring the protests from his wounded shoulder, he fumbled awkwardly with the communicator he'd yanked from his pocket until the fluorescent blue light was staring him straight in the face.

_Nightwing_. Tim hated himself for forgetting that he'd had the device.

" _Please answer me. Are you alright?_ "

The man's voice was thick with concern, making Tim wonder how long he'd been trying to contact him. It couldn't have been more than an hour or two since he'd dozed off; it was still nighttime.

" _Pl—_ "

Startled, Tim instinctively pressed the glowing button on the communicator. He quickly released it, feeling dumb. Batman knowing was one thing. But Nightwing… For whatever reason, that was different, because Batman had found out Tim's identity against his will, but answering this call—That meant relinquishing the truth to Nightwing. It meant it was a choice, and Tim couldn't run from it any longer.

" _Are you okay_?" came a question through the speakers. Tim couldn't tell if Nightwing was more or less troubled by the fact that he had replied using a second of radio silence. But for whatever reason, the concern made the gravity of the decision a little more manageable for Tim.

The teenager took a thin breath and pressed the button. "Yeah… I'm fine."

There was a stretch of silence on the other end. It must have only been a few seconds, but it felt like it lasted an eternity, time and space bending around it like it was the center of the universe. That's what it was for Tim, the cynosure of his life, because everything in the past month had been culminating into whatever happened next.

" _Let's meet_ ," eased its way into the air. " _Sa_ _me place in an hour?_ "

Nightwing still sounded shaken up, and Tim didn't like it. But he forced himself to press the button one more time, willing the answer to come.

"…OK."

* * *

It didn't take long for Tim to reach their usual meeting spot.

Unsurprisingly, Nightwing was already there, perched upon the ledge of the building and watching the city lights catch on the dawn clouds, clearly absorbed in his own thoughts. The teenager waited for a long time, waited for him to turn his head out of profile and offer some wisecrack or plan to carry them through the night until morning. But dawn was already beginning to break, and the adult showed no signs of acknowledging the other's presence.

So, Tim took a tentative step out of the shadows. He felt guilty for disturbing him as Nightwing's head whipped to look in his direction, obviously startled. But Tim's guilt eased when a tame wistfulness spread over his partner's face.

"Hey..."

The gentle greeting hung in the air like a feather, comfortably settling down between them.

Tim dipped his head gingerly in return; he waited to see where Nightwing would take the impending conversation, his gut twisting nervously at the thought.

Nightwing must have sensed that unease, as he let Tim keep his distance, instead rotating himself slightly to better view his visitor, remaining seated. "You look beat, Cindy," he observed, the ghost of a sad, tender smile still present. It felt like the man was trying to replay a conversation he had shared with someone else, waiting for Tim to follow up with words that he didn't— _couldn't—_ know.

Tim watched him silently through the eye holes of his mask, and although it took a second, the sorrowful air around the vigilante intensified. The lack of response was evidently troubling to him, but Nightwing's soft expression never faltered.

"Sit with me for a bit?"

Tim considered the spot next to the man. He wanted answers. He really did. So, Tim was inevitably drawn to comply, soundlessly drifting over to him and situating himself on the building ledge. In lieu of discourse, the teenager busied himself with brushing the dirt from his pantlegs, delicately smoothing out the wrinkles with his palms. He could feel Nightwing's watchful eyes taking note of every movement.

But eventually, there was nothing left to arrange, and the teenager's hands fell uselessly into his lap.

There wasn't much else to do up there other than observe the glow of Gotham's skyline and the abyss of a multi-story drop below, dim car headlights crawling along the boulevards like ants. In the distance, the very edge of the horizon was starting to lighten and mask the stars.

They were surroundings that the two sat encased in for quite some time, neither speaking. Unexpectedly, the silence was easy, nothing very threatening, but even Tim knew there had to be more, some reason for Nightwing wanting to meet him so late, for staying on the other end of the com link for God knew how long; the quiet was only a front to hide the tension lying underneath, that something that was now hanging over both of their heads but was easier to just ignore.

And as much as Tim enjoyed the peace—the peaceful view, the peaceful stillness, the peaceful company—considering the events from earlier, it was obvious that a thought was eating at his elder. Had Batman told him his suspicions? Or had he already known all along?

"How's the shoulder?"

Tim broke his gaze away from the horizon to find Nightwing's eyes observing him gently. In that moment, the way the light embraced his hair, the casualness with which he relaxed back onto his hands, Tim couldn't help but notice how unalike Nightwing and Batman were having finally met the latter…

Tugged back to reality, Tim realized he hadn't yet answered Nightwing's question, the man having straightened with momentary concern. It prompted Tim to glance fleetingly at his shoulder, tilting his head to the side in indifference.  _I'll live._

"Let me take a look," his partner offered, already pulling some linen bandages out of the pockets of his sleeves. "I should probably return the favor. Can't have you being the only one patching people up."

And Tim knew he should have minded as the man slid closer to him and bent over the wound. (Tim had forgotten how much larger Nightwing was until he was right next to him.) But the topical anesthetic made the pain fade, and he was exhausted from questioning everything everyone did. He trusted Nightwing. He needed to.

Before he knew it, the man was plying a needle, stitching rhythmically and carefully. Tim surveyed his friend's face without a sound.

The more thought he gave it, the more adamant Tim became that Nightwing and Batman were pure opposites. Because as much as he was able to vanish without a trace, track someone without a sound, Batman was loud, fueled by some kind of hurt and rage that boiled over into a protective passion. But Nightwing…

Nightwing was silence. He was the silence that was shared with a loved one, accepting and unconditional, unvoiced yet always present. But even more than that, Nightwing was also silently, overwhelmingly  _sad_. It showed itself in the tired slope of his eyes, the way his eyebrows knitted together when he smiled; it was weighing so heavily on him that it had attained tangibility, something obvious and irrefutable.

But here he was, stitching Tim up when he was the one in need of help, in need of something to numb the pain—even if it was just for a while.

"…Nightwing?"

The man's attention instantly broke away from his shoulder, jumping straight into the shadowed pools of Tim's eyes. An expression Tim had never seen before flashed across Nightwing's features: It was a summation of surprise, grief, joy, confusion, longing, frustration, hope—every fathomable human emotion, he could find. Tim had problems believing so many feelings could be felt by one person all at once.

Nightwing didn't even breathe.

"…Yes?" the man's voice came, small, uneven, and awkward, but his eyes remained resolutely, desperately trained on the person in front of him. Tim understood the feeling, afraid to speak but afraid to look away should he lose his nerve. He hadn't spoken,  _truly_  spoken, to someone in such a long time that he was surprised his own voice had worked at all.

Tim swallowed hard before continuing.

"What happened?"

_"You know I want him to be alive as much as the next person, but Robin's already said that…maybe you need to consider that he's…"_

"…to that friend of yours. The one you mentioned at the clinic?"

Nightwing maintained his eye contact for a few seconds longer, scanning the holes of Tim's mask before settling back into treating his shoulder without comment. Embarrassed at his own insensitive question, Tim turned his face forward, jaw tight. Even when Nightwing had finished rolling a linen bandage around his arm, Tim didn't dare avert his eyes from the horizon, which by now was sluggishly turning lavender.

"Tim?"

The teenager's heart skipped a beat, paralyzed, as he turned to look up at his friend. Nightwing was just as close as before, eyes searching for some validation to the name he'd just uttered. Tim couldn't help but note how much taller the man was now that he wasn't bent over his shoulder, frozen there like time itself had stopped.

And then, he moved.

Nightwing shakily reached out a hand, fingers tentatively stretching toward the side of Tim's hood. The fabric tugged as a fist closed around it and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He could feel the adult's shaking, anxious breathing through the touch.

Should he stop him? Let him in? Let him see what he already knew was there? Thousands of thoughts buzzed in Tim's head. He couldn't decide. There were too many variables. Too many unknowns. Only one thing was certain: that he trusted this person. So, Tim waited. Waited and watched and prayed as those trembling fingers pulled back his hood in slow motion, revealing what Tim knew was long, black hair. Tim Wayne's hair.

Nightwing left his hand fisted in the folds of the removed hood, pinning him there with his stare. Tim wished he would say something that would ease the growing panic pounding on his ribs, knocking against his chest like a battering ram.

A part of him wanted to book it. To jump clear off the ledge despite his desire to know what would come. But Nightwing's hot hand was still heavy against his collarbone, holding him tightly in place. Tim was flooded with a feeling of nausea and butterflies and shakes and fevers and nerves. The air was so much thinner all of a sudden.

Despite all of this, Tim didn't budge. Like watching a movie, he was invested in the story without exactly feeling like he was  _in_  the story, unable to move as the events played out before his eyes. Only…this was no movie. No dream.

The cowardly part of him made him snap his eyes closed when he felt a free hand move up to his mask, resting there for what must have been a lifetime. Any second now and his last defense would vanish. Any second now, and it would be final, done, set in stone, no turning back.

The hand fell.

Tim opened his eyes in confusion. The cold ivory was still pressed tightly against his face.

Nightwing had already resituated himself on the ledge, observing the skyline with a downtrodden expression. Tim waited for some kind of explanation.

"I don't want to push you to do anything until you're ready. You probably have some master plan or—or reason for not telling me, but…" His voice trailed off. "But I want you to know that I'd do anything for you. You're my…" The man looked around as though he was struggling to find the right words to say—or maybe the courage to say them. Eventually, he reached up and peeled off his own mask, tossing it aside like a useless bandage. He looked defeated, frustrated, too tired to look at him. "It's me, Tim. You don't have to keep secrets from  _me_ …."

_He's…._

Tim stared, stared at the pair of blue eyes trained on a building down the way, their bright color dulled from exhaustion, but that didn't matter, because Tim—

He'd seen him before. Read about him: Richard Grayson. Bruce Wayne's other adoptive son. Tim's adoptive brother.

They were...They were family. Bruce Wayne was Batman, and his brother—His brother was Nightwing. It all fell into place, so thoroughly that Tim was certain his brain made an audible click at the epiphany. This was someone he could trust with his life, because this person…

He was his brother.

Tim was overtaken with this urge to see him—really see him. Not through binoculars from hundreds of yards away. Not through windows or shadows. And not through the narrow tunnels of a pair of eye holes in a mask.

Outside of his shock, Nightwing had continued speaking. "I don't know what happened to you, but I want to help, even if you have to keep the fact you're alive a secret. I get it. You've probably got some genius scheme to catch Joker and this is necessary but… I'll do anything, so just,  _please_ , let me—"

"Richard!"

Before Tim had even realized it himself, the blank, ivory façade was cast aside, forgotten on the rooftop. He couldn't remember having hugged someone before, but it felt natural with this person as he flung his arms around his neck, holding onto him for dear life.

In an instant, Nightwing awkwardly returned the embrace while also trying to pry him off enough to see his face. "Tim? Tim!" Eventually the two wound up face to face, two pairs of blue eyes seeing through each other, taking in— _really_  taking in—each other's faces for the first time.

"It's you! It really is..." Nightwing's voice gave out to a choked sob as he pulled Tim in, pushing him out again to touch his face and knead through his hair before tugging him back in once more, still proving to himself that he was real and alive and in front of him and  _there_.

Tim was pretty sure he couldn't have wrestled free, even if he'd wanted to. But he didn't. The contact was the first thing in weeks that hadn't felt cold, that was warm and nice and trustworthy.

He nestled as close as he could to the Kevlar lining his brother's— _his brother's_ —armor. He felt understood and happy. Really, truly happy. The kind that made his heart hurt from the swirling emotions, and even though the contact tore at his new stitches, even though he didn't know what would come next, had no plan, he didn't care.

He was home.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever. The red sun was rising and lighting up the harbor, the waves turning every warm color imaginable. And although he had gotten well-acquainted with the city's criminals over the past few weeks, right then, Tim was certain that there couldn't have been a more peaceful place on earth than Gotham.

But everything has to come to an end. Tim didn't want to let go, but he acquiesced when Nightwing gently pushed him back to arm's length, still gripping him securely by his sides. His voice was kind but serious.

"Tim, what happened? Where have you been and why—Why didn't you come back after…?"

The teenager had anticipated this question, but the words still fell out dumbly. "I don't…I can't remember."

Nightwing's head tilted to the side, his brows knitting together to form a look of childlike confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I don't remember anything that happened or…anything at all," Tim clarified, absentmindedly moving a hand to his face while shaking his head. Nightwing's eyes grew wide for an instant, like something in his brain had clicked too, but he let Tim continue. "I just remember coming to, and I didn't know anything about who I was or why I was there and…" He was so frustrated at himself for not knowing more, not knowing why.

"That's alright." Nightwing draped an arm around his shoulders in a less interrogative fashion. "Can you walk me through what you  _can_  remember?" Tim looked up at him unconfidently. "Let me help," he pressed.

"I—" Tim's heart was rising into his throat. He wasn't even sure where to begin, what to leave out. What parts were important enough for Nightwing to know? He closed his eyes in thought, his face strained.

No. He had to stop thinking of him as some distant, cold superhero: He was family. To him, Tim was sure, it was all important, any last detail of whatever had happened. He probably wanted to know as much about Tim's world as Tim wanted to know about his.

And with that knowledge, Tim swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

On the wind of his next exhale, everything came tumbling out. Every thought, every sight. How he'd filtered through stray newspapers looking for clues about who he was and where he'd come from. How he'd snuck into the smugglers' hideout. How he'd trailed Batman for days from afar. How uncertain he'd been about partnering with Nightwing at first. And how his most recent night of vigilantism had fared.

It felt like someone had spiked him with truth serum, loosened his tongue and ordered him to pour out all of his problems. His voice hurt from misuse, and by the end, his mouth was dry and his throat stung.

Nightwing remained eerily quiet, eyeing him carefully and digesting the information he'd been given. He'd been that way almost the entire time, only nodding and asking for clarification here and there—that and informing Tim that Batman had been able to reach Batgirl before Joker that night in the sewer, although it had allowed the psychopath time to escape.

It all left Tim waiting for the man to provide more thorough comment on his story. When Nightwing finally did, his words were laid down slowly and clearly.

"But how did you even know to look for Batman in the first place? If you didn't remember, then…."

Tim had intentionally left that part out, suddenly reminded of the pain in his back, each deliberate line twisting and aching, a constant reminder of the past he'd had, gnawing at him but refusing to surrender any secrets. He didn't want his brother to know about that, didn't want him to feel worried or angry or anything else. Tim could handle it.

He shook his head fiercely. "I don't want…" He didn't bother finishing his sentence.  _I don't want to talk about it._

Nightwing got the idea. He released a careful breath from his lungs, as if he was trying to decide if words would be enough to bridge the silence spreading between them.

"I'm sorry."

Tim glanced up from where he'd been analyzing a crack in the ledge. "Why are you—"

"I looked for you. We all did," Nightwing admitted, expression guilty. "It's just…Robin— _Damian_ —had come home that night, saying he'd seen you shot. The angle'd been bad, but Joker had your mask, Tim. He flashed it at Batman, and we all…" He exhaled, fisting a hand in his hair. "Damian was in a bad way over it. He wouldn't show it, but he—He needed someone to believe him, so I guess I just… _did_. I did. I really thought that you were dead, Tim….

"Only one person was really stubborn when it came to that, and it was Batgirl. She was sure you wouldn't have gone down so easily, and everyone…well, we all kind of fell to pieces, you could say. Then, Joker had Scarecrow's rejected toxins and there was this Court of Owls craziness which made it impossible to look much more." He leaned his head back, avoiding eye contact. "…You were gone for a month, Tim. A whole month, and we were totally worthless. Some kind of family to come home to, huh?" he added wryly, face drawn tight.

Tim wasn't sure what to say to that, so he let the remark lie, not making eye contact either.

"…When did you know?" Tim posed quietly, watching a car slink down below. "When did you know it was me?"

The man closed his eyes. "I guess…I've had my suspicions since the very first night."

Tim straightened at that.

"There was this one second, back then, before you jumped off the roof, and you… You gave me this look. I couldn't see it, obviously, but I could feel it. Because it was the same one you used to give me whenever you had an idea. It felt the same then, and…I wanted to test what you'd do if I put on some pressure. Turned out your fighting style—It was the same too, although a little rusty."

His brother looked swamped by nostalgia, but Tim kept waiting, because there had to be more.

The nostalgia vanished. "Then, there was that night at the clinic… It threw me, because you wouldn't have been the type of person to let me hurt like that. Not the you I know, anyway… But back then, you just sat with me, kind of sad like, and I thought there was no way you could be Tim: You were dead and that was that."

…

"…until tonight," Tim finished.

The man nodded, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Yeah," he murmured distantly, "until tonight."

It went quiet again. A bird chirped somewhere below, and the roads were thickening with cars. It was bright enough by then that they weren't using their headlights anymore.

"Can I ask another question?"

Nightwing leaned forward a bit, exhausted but indicating for Tim to continue.

"What happened," Tim managed, "the night I went missing?"

That earned a sigh, long and tired and slow.

"It was  _supposed_  to be a simple mission," the man started. "Scarecrow was threatening to release Fear Toxin as usual, and we'd tracked him down to one of two locations. You and Bats, well, you hadn't been seeing eye to eye for a while, so I went with him and you went with Damian to check out the other location. Our side caught Crane there, so he's back in Arkham now." The vigilante's face looked grave, like there was something he wasn't saying.

It still stood that Arkham Asylum had been attacked by the Red Hood that night, and Tim wondered if maybe—maybe that explained the man's bleakness…

"Anyway," Nightwing interrupted, ready to continue, "we hadn't anticipated that Joker had uncovered Crane's plan too, but he was there to ambush you and Damian when you got there. Crane was especially thorough with that base, since it's where he stashed experimental Fear Toxin, so the coms wouldn't work through the walls and the place was basically a deathtrap. In the end, Damian said you two agreed for him to go through one of the smaller vents in the ceiling so he could call for backup, but Joker shot his line and…" Nightwing offered a helpless shrug. "I guess you know as much as I do about the rest."

Tim nodded, relieved that that part of his past had been straightened out. It was strange, but he vaguely remembered something like that, a pair of jagged, golden wings that were ascending and falling and then… Tim fought back a shiver, because what followed was that same laugh from the tunnel.

"So, what now?" Nightwing was back, a welcome reprieve. "We've gotta tell Batman."

Tim blinked at him, finding himself able to manage a smile—however small. "Bruce Wayne… He is Batman, isn't he?"

"Uh-huh..." Nightwing hummed with a sneaky grin, apparently pleased that Tim had been able to figure it out. The cocky expression faded, though, as the man got to his feet and replaced his mask. "But he doesn't like being kept waiting. We should probably get going." He extended a hand.

Tim happily lifted his own as though to take it, but the motion slowed like the air was solidifying around him until he came to a stop. He observed the offered appendage wistfully, how close their fingers were and how easy it would have been to let his own fall into the welcoming hand.

Nightwing knelt back down, sitting on his heels. "What is it, Tim?"

"I… I'm not Tim," he admitted despondently, "not the one you know, anyway." He pulled the abandoned mask off the ground next to him, holding the object forlornly in his hands. "I have to figure some things out first—for myself."

Nightwing took him in quietly before giving a soft snort of a laugh, glancing over at the horizon. "You know, Tim, as much as you say that, you really haven't changed all that much." Tim looked up at him, his expression asking him to explain, but the adult seemed to have been speaking more to himself than to Tim. "You're not alone anymore. You don't have to do everything all by yourself."

"I know. And thank you. It's just…I need a bit of time. Time to think, you know?"

Nightwing nodded with a sigh. "I understand. Like I said earlier, I don't want to push you to do anything until you're ready. But I worry about you, shorty." He ruffled his hair affectionately, and the touch brought out another smile from Tim. "I have to go—" That wasn't surprising. It had to be almost 8 a.m. "—but I'll call you tonight, alright? You get some sleep and watch your shoulder," he finished pointedly, bringing himself back to his feet.

Tim nodded. "I will, Richard."

"Please, call me Dick."

"Dick," Tim repeated, noting the familiar way it rolled off his tongue.

And just like that, with a goofy wink and a grin, the named man was gone, lost among the bright sunlight and the singing of cheerful birds finally coming to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick is making a Brady Bunch reference by calling Tim "Cindy." (The youngest of the Brady's three daughters.) He's expecting Tim to reply by calling him "Marcia," who is the oldest. The inside joke is mentioned in Red Robin #14.
> 
> Hope the hugs have been worth the wait :3 Thanks for sticking this story out with me!


	14. Of Scars and Promises

Dick had called. He'd kept his word.

When he'd revealed himself, Tim had assumed that things would have changed between them, something drastic and notable. And in part, things did change—but the best pieces stayed the same: There was still the usual lineup of vigilantism, Blüdhaven's Nightwing shadowed by a teenager who now wielded a staff. The change happened somewhere else, somewhere between the crime-fighting and the whirl of action and adrenaline. There were breaks in those "somewheres," times where they could just  _be_.

It'd been a week of it, and Tim didn't think twice anymore when his first thoughts of the man stopped being "Nightwing" and started being "Dick," his brother. There were times intermittently where that was all the man really was…

"Orange, you said? Is it that sign over there?"

"Yeah," Dick admitted with a scowl, seated on an overhang beside Tim while sporting his Nightwing costume. Their feet dangled off the ledge, and the glowing city lights swam up to meet them half-way. "How're you still so good at this?"

"It doesn't help that you looked right at it!" Tim laughed. He hadn't done that—hadn't laughed—for a long time, but it came naturally now. It felt good. "I think you're going easy on me. That's why I've been winning."

"Whatever," the man waved off with a hand, his smile betraying him. "It's your turn."

It was some silly road-trip game Dick had proposed that evening. It'd led them to the shopping district, tall buildings flashing with advertisements and commercials while late-night pedestrians trickled by down below. Dick had said that was the best place to play his game since there were so many colors, and if that wasn't true, Tim didn't know what was: The bright, flamboyant signs were stubborn enough to shower their faces in the same vibrant hues—even from where they sat ten stories up.

They'd been visiting new areas each night between their usual activities, looking for anything that might jog Tim's memory. The man had suggested that something in one of the commercials might do the trick ("It's a good way to get some variety. Who knows?"), cajoling Tim into agreement with the promise of a game to while away time. Tim hadn't played it before—or at least, he couldn't  _remember_  having played it before—although he had to admit that the game was already getting a bit old. But Dick seemed eager to introduce him to anything new or fun, so Tim played along, if nothing more than to make the man happy.

"Earth to Tim," Dick sang, shaking a hand in front of the teenager's eyes. "I'm not getting any younger over here."

"Alright, alright," Tim scoffed, swatting away the limb. It didn't take long for him to decide. "I spy something…green."

Dick was instantly scanning the streets, a comedic determination about him that almost convinced Tim that his brother was taking the competition seriously. The man glanced up after a moment, pointing to a spot below. "It's that tree over there, isn't it? The one on the sidewalk?"

"You  _are_  going easy on me, aren't you?" Tim groaned. "You've been guessing the obvious ones all night."

"Okay then, what about that billboard there?" Dick tried again. "The background's green—or does that look blue to you? Maybe aqua?"

"Nah," Tim muttered blandly, taking a sip of the bottled water Dick had shoved on him earlier. The owl mask sat off to the side, more or less forgotten. "You were right with the tree before. I was just giving you a rough time."

A playful slap to the shoulder almost caused Tim to spill his drink ("What? I never said you were wrong!") before the two were laughing again, the noise gradually dissolving into comfortable quiet. It always felt like that now, and Tim was questioning how he'd ever survived being alone all the time that he had, always suspicious—even of Dick; it felt like a lifetime of difference looking back on it then.

The quiet stretched, and the two were content observing an advertisement play on one of the screens. It was a basic, nonessential product, simply something to look at, and Tim tried to envision having seen commercials like these before, tried to imagine living a life where things like that were normal.

"Hey, Tim?" Dick started unexpectantly. In contrast to a minute ago, he sounded a bit somber, maybe even sad, his mouth pulled to the side and his gaze distant. "Can you promise me something?"

Tim inclined his head, innocently asking more.

"Can you…promise me you'll stay like this?" the man murmured, eyes pinned to the street below. He was watching a group of people rip-roaring over something. They were probably drunk, leaning against each other for shaky support, but they seemed to be having fun as their shadows hobbled down the sidewalk, hooting like banshees.

"I don't mean exactly but…" Dick continued, "you used to smile a lot more. And I get that things have been tough for you the past few years—as much as you don't remember it right now." The man gave a rueful chuckle. "Heck, you've lived through more things than anyone should have to. But still…I've missed this: you and me, just goofing off. I really have."

Tim kept quiet. He wasn't sure what to say.

Meanwhile, Dick looked morose, like he was battling with himself over saying something more.

"I'm worried for you, actually," the man admitted, almost a whisper, "if— _when_  it all comes back, you know. There's a lot of dark stuff that's probably gonna come up, and I just hope…" He sighed. "I hope you'll feel okay talking about it with me or…anyone. You've got a lot of people who love you, Tim." Dick cast him a glance. "I don't know if you see that—or if you ever have—but you do. You really do."

Tim continued to hold his silence, eyes meeting Dick's for a hesitant second. "I'll try," he voiced tentatively, because that was the closest to a promise he could get.

Dick smiled wryly in reply, his concern still evident. But the emotion was broken by a long exhale, the man stretching out his arms, nice and slow, before lacing his fingers behind his head. "Good," he nodded, sounding a little cheerier, "cause you're gonna give me gray hairs if you don't. So, when you feel like clamming up, remember that, alright? The gray would show in the black something awful, and that'd be a real shame."

Tim squinted at him dubiously, but he settled for shaking his head with a snort. "You're so weird."

"Hey," Dick shrugged, grinning, "I'm your brother. If I didn't embarrass you, then I wouldn't be doing my job." He arched his back in another stretch before getting to his feet. The grin faded. "…I take it you didn't remember anything?"

Tim kept quiet for a moment. There was a flower on one of the advertisements, petals white as snow, that he found he'd couldn't look away from…

"No," he whispered, "still nothing."

"We'll keep trying."

Tim wasn't so sure he wanted to.

Memories came up on occasion, strange things as fickle as smoke, like if he moved the wrong way or tried to touch them, they'd vanish. But he could still make out the indistinct shapes, swirling around him with a toxic air: corpses and failures, lying and being lied to, and the last hugs he could remember giving someone before, somehow, he knew they were gone from his life. They were always as vague as a dream, but still, he could feel a lingering hurt from deep inside him that he could never quite grasp, dissolving as soon as he thought he could close his fingers around it.

It told him that…maybe remembering wasn't what he wanted anymore.

Tim wanted the good things: the smell of carpet from his childhood home, the smooth surface of a keyboard beneath his fingertips, and the familiar lilt of a voice over breakfast, wise and kind and…English (He didn't know why.), but the rest? He wanted it, but at the same time, he didn't. Bad follows good; that's the way life goes. And Tim might have been selfish in wanting pleasure without pain, but who could blame him, really…?

Tim sighed. He needed to stop thinking so much.

"Break time's over, bud," Dick's voice cut in followed by the sound of a grapnel gun snapping into place. "Got a robbery a few blocks away."

Tim snatched his mask and jumped to his feet. It'd take his mind off things, he told himself. What'd come would come, and he'd be there when it did.

* * *

Tim liked to think that afternoons in Gotham could be fairly entertaining. There were parks and museums and restaurants lining the streets, all fun things that normal people did. Tim couldn't help wondering if he'd had many friends to do that kind of stuff with, back before things changed—

Another rock sailed through the hoop.

—Probably not. Dick made it sound like Tim was more of a loner, someone who kept to himself and didn't let people in. His brother wasn't wrong to imply that, either: Dick was his only friend right then, and Tim had already blocked him out once.

There was that ever-present tug along his back when Tim grabbed another stone from the dwindling pile beside him.

He should have told Dick, told him about the scar. For whatever reason, it'd seemed so personal, though, like the world would end if he just told him about it, been honest and opened up about something that still bothered him every time he moved his shoulders just so. That secrecy was probably a personality trait embedded deep in whoever Tim had been before.

He weighed the rock for a moment in his hand, admiring how the afternoon sunlight caught on the porous edges.

So, Tim Wayne had been the type to keep closed off.

But was that who  _Tim_  was?

He exhaled slowly, appreciating the way his breath swirled white in the gelid air as he bounced the stone in his hand. November had since bled into December, frost coating the rooftops in the mornings, and the added cold encouraged people to stay indoors. It made it easier for Tim to move around outside, trapped like a fixture in both time and his thoughts.

And he had a lot to think about, reflecting on who he'd been before and who he wanted to be.

That was the most common skein of thought that Tim found himself caught in whenever he was alone. It was an unvoiced pressure eating at the teenager, because although he never let it show, Tim was slightly defensive when it came to his identity. Sometimes, it was like he was being confused for someone else, like Dick was wanting him to be someone that he couldn't be.

Dick had lost his brother. Of course, the man's response was natural, excited and hoping that the person he'd once thought was dead could be brought back. But Tim still needed time to find himself again, maybe even redefine himself, and so he was all right continuing to spend his days outside in the daytime, just thinking.

He pulled back his arm, feeling his shoulder tense from the pressure, and let the stone loose. There was the expected delay, stretching long and eager across the cement court before a dull thunk sounded: The stone had nicked the rim of the hoop and spiraled in through the netting.

Admittedly, it wasn't the most interesting thing to be doing, not considering Tim was apparently a high-school dropout with a million-dollar career. But Tim Wayne was still off in Berlin, so appearing publicly in Gotham wasn't exactly the best course of action to take. So, there Tim was, tossing stones sideways through a basketball hoop from a nearby rooftop. He was twenty for twenty at the moment, although no one was there to see it.

Days usually went like that. Dick was busy, as expected, and Tim did need the space, needed time to consider his life and the small things he could recall. There were always those details, flashes of an image, still as a photograph—like that white flower he'd seen the other night.

He should have told Dick then. He should have told him that he remembered seeing something like that before, but it was just an image, same as always, and there just wasn't much to say. Dick probably wouldn't have minded but…nonetheless, it was something personal, something he found he didn't want to share.

Of course, there was that same thing again, that secrecy Tim and his past self had in common.

They were strangers, really, people who'd never met but happened to have similar personalities and share the same body. Overall, it made for a bizarre feeling, one that Tim still wasn't quite sure how he felt about. That was why he was out here, tossing rocks like each shot could bring him closer to some conclusion.

He spent a moment taking in the small collection of stones he'd thrown. They were staring up at him from the pavement, silently passing judgment on how he spent his free time, and Tim couldn't fight back the dull pang of shame.

He had one person that he trusted, and that was Dick. Only one friend, and to be honest, it wasn't even his own, just someone tied to forgotten memories and a loyalty Tim couldn't remember.

The slip of paper crinkled when Tim pulled it out of his pocket: a string of digits scribbled there along with words Dick had told him the other day. "I get it if you're a bit antsy about Bruce," the man had admitted, pressing the paper into Tim's palms, "but if you can't reach me and need help, call this number, alright?"

The memory vanished, leaving Tim alone with the paper and the name written there: "Alfred."

Whoever that was.

He shoved the paper back into his pocket and reached for another rock, rolling it through his fingers. Maybe it was a dumb thing, one of those thoughts someone has when they're by themselves and willing to put a childish stake in something, but Tim held the stone for a while and left a hope embedded in its core.

He didn't really have anyone to call his own, all friends borrowed from his past. And right then, he wished for someone else, someone who hadn't been friends with Tim Wayne, like he could distinguish himself through them, like he'd have made a friend on his own as just Tim, just himself.

He spent another minute memorizing the heft and the curve of the rock, the divot in the middle and the way it bent at the tip. There was that pull of skin on his back, and he let the stone fly, watching it arc for a long three seconds before there was a sharp clatter of something skittering across the pavement.

Of course, that had to be the only shot he missed.


	15. The Shot that Missed

It was one of those longer nights of crime-fighting with Dick, the kind that left Tim too exhausted to think of much past the desire to sleep. The thought was nice (Sleep had been avoiding him for the past week and a half.), and he was looking forward to undisturbed rest that morning when he pulled open the cracking window of his hideout, swinging a leg over the sill to step in. He was almost considering falling over right there onto the floor, happy just to be off his feet and to stop thinking for once. To just sleep. Yeah, that would be nice...

There was that familiar creak of the floorboards, groaning loud as an unoiled door hinge in the dark quiet. And then, there was that something unfamiliar.

"You know—"

Tim's head snapped up, frozen half-way through the window as a rush of adrenaline pulsed through him. Someone was there, a crumpled shadow near the wall on the floor.

"—it's not proper etiquette to use another man's safe house."

Tim blinked, unsure of what to do. His hand was hovering over his pocket where he had his com stashed, his staff weighing on his back in a makeshift strap, but he didn't move to grab either. The vague figure was taking shape, the room coming into focus as Tim's vision adjusted. That didn't matter: He didn't need his eyes to recognize the click of a gun's safety being flicked off.

The longest ten seconds of Tim's life grinded by, his ears not picking up on any sound passed that one click. It was almost like the noise echoed—or maybe it was just his own heartbeat, grown audible in the silence.

Eventually, his stillness must have worked some kind of magic, as there was the lifeless thunk of metal being placed on the floor. The safety hadn't been switched back on, but at least the gun was off him. Tim took another breath, still stuck mid-way through the window and aware of how easy it would've been for the pistol to be trained on him again and the trigger pulled.

"You're gonna let in a draft," the voice drawled, a bit gruff. Tim hadn't paid it much attention before, too busy running through his options, but now that the panic was subsiding, he allowed himself to analyze the tone. It was the kind of voice that said "I make the rules," perfectly in control and well-aware of it.

That was the last thing Tim wanted to think. But the observation was out there, curled up somewhere in the darkness near the gun on the floor, and so, Tim pulled himself the rest of the way into the apartment.

There wasn't much point in closing the window (The cracks were more than enough for the cold to pass through.), but Tim pulled it shut anyway. A few shards of glass fell from one of the fractures and onto the floor, singing when they hit the paneling.

"Been meaning to get this place fixed up," the voice excused casually, "but I'm a busy man."

Tim didn't address the comment, instead memorizing the spots where broken pieces of glass caught the sparse light. There was some filtering in from the streetlamp outside, but other than that, it was still hard to see, everything abstracted into patches of black and blacker.

But the glass could be a weapon if Tim needed it.

That was its only purpose right then, shining dimly there on the floor.

Everything was being processed like that. Anything that could be turned in his favor was categorized as such, because here—here was the only place that Tim had ever felt safe since the beginning, and now it'd been invaded by someone he couldn't identify.

Someone who was making the rules.

After a few seconds, there was indistinct shuffling coming from the same direction as the voice, and Tim waited to see what would happen, trying to envision what the shifting of clothing meant in conjunction with the piercing clink of something metallic.

It became clear what it'd been when a lighter flicked on, a small wisp of flame dancing there. The fire chased away some of the darkness, and every now-visible thing was instantly analyzed, everything from the smoldering cigarette to the milky eyes of a domino mask. The white tuft of hair hanging over the man's forehead caught the light too, a shock of lightning in a sky of black.

That was all good and interesting, but it didn't do much to help Tim recognize this person, this stranger who was casually blowing clouds of smoke into the air and watching them churn. Then, Tim caught sight of the red sheen of the helmet sitting at the man's side.

"You're the Red Hood."

Tim couldn't see them through the white, but he could feel the passive intensity of eyes being fixed on him. The title had obviously been correct. However, "Red Hood"—That was the name Batgirl had used the night Arkham had been attacked; Dick had called him something else...

"Jason," Tim repeated, testing the way the name held up in the silence.

The man didn't give much reaction, although maybe his white eyes thinned a fraction. "Yeah?" he offered curtly.

Tim took the response for what it was: He was supposed to know this person somehow, enough to know his real name. That realization didn't make it any easier to come up with a reply, though, so Tim asked the only question that really mattered.

"What are you doing here?"

"Already told you," Jason grunted through his cigarette, and Tim almost felt like his eyes were a bit more probing than they'd been before. "It's my place. The million-dollar question is 'What are  _you_ doing here?'"

Tim didn't answer; it probably wasn't safe to say much more than he already had.

"And," Jason continued, waving a shadowy hand in Tim's direction, "what's with the get-up? Your old costume was lame, but you're really hitting rock bottom with the civvies."

Okay, so the man seemed confident that he knew who Tim was. It stood to reason that Jason really did have him pegged, because if Dick knew him, it wasn't hard to imagine that Tim had known Jason too. And vice versa.

The teenager spent a moment reminding himself to be more careful, because he hadn't done anything yet in the public eye to reveal himself—meaning he'd already given his identity away in just the one minute of standing in that room.

He shouldn't have said Jason's real name.

That was probably what'd done it.

Tim cringed, mentally kicking himself. Replying meant risking information. Asking meant letting on about the things Tim didn't remember. But what to do now?

Cautiously, Tim let the silence go for a few seconds without answering, trying to see if Jason would retrieve the firearm from the floor. The weapon stayed where it was while Jason waited too. That meant Tim still had some lee-way in their conversation—a good sign, because there was still one question Tim could counter with.

"Why'd you attack Arkham two weeks ago?"

Another long pause followed, one in which Jason slowly leaned forward, a few fingers looping around the handle of his gun. "I'll tell you what," he said, pulling it up to glean the metal with his eyes, "you take off the mask and I'll answer."

Tim's head tilted instinctively at the request.

The offer was strange. Jason already knew who he was, so what did it matter if he saw his face? The only difference in appearance that Tim could guess was nightmare-induced exhaustion and the two dark crescents underlining his eyes. It was his torso that had suffered the most amount of change, old scars and new scars alike meeting in an awkward dance along his back and rib cage. But…

It seemed like a fair trade to get Jason to talk, to have a chance to profile this man before Tim potentially slipped up and revealed that he was less Tim Wayne than Jason really thought. Tim paused for just a moment longer, weighing his options before deciding that playing himself against a pistol wasn't a smart move. He removed the mask and tossed it to the side as casually as possible.

Tim didn't have anything to hide…

Did he?

The way Jason looked him over made Tim feel like he'd given something away that he shouldn't have, like somehow, one look at his face had allowed the man insight into a whole separate part of Tim's life that even Dick couldn't understand. Even more telling was that Tim swore he saw a flicker of something slip through Jason's cold demeanor, something nearly indiscernible in the soft lighting of a lit cigarette and weak streetlights. But it was there: some emotion…one akin to sympathy.

Regardless, Jason flashed his gun in profile, just to make the next gesture more obvious. He clicked the safety on.

"Originally when I went to Arkham, I was hoping to catch the clown," the man muttered, his firearm making its way to the holster strapped around his thigh. He was keeping his word. "The freakshow wasn't there, but Scarecrow was. Almost popped the sorry sucker when Dick had to show up and wreck my shot."

So, Jason did know Dick, and he also had a thing against the Joker. Two things learned.

_He's not against killing, either._

Make that three things.

"Why would you go to Arkham looking for Joker, though?" Tim pressed, feeling a touch more confident now that the gun was more or less out of the picture. "He's been out of there for three months now. There'd be no point…"

Jason blew out a stream of smoke, shrugging coolly. "There's also no point in you running around the city like you've been—Yet here we are."

No. There was a point to what Tim had been doing, just like there was a point to breaking into Arkham to shoot someone who supposedly wasn't there. Obviously, Jason wasn't in the mood to reveal that, though, so Tim didn't push it.

"Actually," Jason began with a look of calculating consideration, "that's what really brought me to Gotham."

Tim waited for the man to clarify.

"I heard news of a new vigilante in town, and I have to say, you were not the person I was expecting. A kid pushing their luck? Sure. But Tim Drake, with all his usual gadgets and big plans, taking on the smaller fish in Gotham with only that collapsible fishing rod you've got with you? Eh, not quite your style." He cocked his head faintly, as if giving the notion a second thought. "Then again, Dick wouldn't be the type to take a stranger under his wing so easily. Might get 'em killed that way, with how bad Gotham is…

"And you." The man inhaled a thoughtful breath of smoke. He pulled something up from his other side, a slip of paper by the shape of it, but it was still too dark to make it out. "Done in by Joker, they say. But here you are, alive and well—as far as I know, anyway," he corrected casually, eyes trained on whatever thing was in his hand. "The whole 'coming back from the dead' shtick is sorta my gig. Has been for years. Or…is that not what happened here, I wonder…?"

The paper was turned over, crinkling slightly. Jason was likely scrutinizing it with some night-vision specs embedded in his mask, but suddenly, Tim didn't need to see to know what the man was looking at; the realization surfaced with painful clarity.

There were bits of newspaper clippings all over the place: anything and everything from Batman to Bruce Wayne to Tim himself. It was all there. The teenager couldn't fight back the wince. Jason probably had a good idea as to what had happened, Tim digging through his own past as if he'd just...forgotten it. But Jason still asked the question.

"What'd Joker do to you?"

And there it was.

Not answering was equal to telling the truth; Jason already knew, sitting there inhaling smoke with a grim expression. For someone who'd been threatening to shoot him earlier, the man was looking him over with tired eyes, sad if not a bit regretful.

"Can't remember," Tim finally admitted through an exhale. He didn't need to elaborate.

"Amnesia, huh?" Jason hummed dryly, eyes returned to his cigarette as he continued bitterly. "Now  _that's_  original. Keep doing that and Bruce might just give you the time of day."

_…Well, they definitely don't get along._

Tim filed away the observation for future reference and allowed Jason to continue.

"It certainly explains some things, though," Jason reasoned calmly. "A month ago, a kid busted into one of my weapon trades. Takes some guts to pull a stunt like that, and I've been wondering who it was." He laughed wryly. "Guess I found my answer."

_Wait, weapon trade…?_

Tim fought back the urge to visibly recoil at the revelation. It was his first night of crime-fighting, back before he'd met Dick. "You mean  _you_  planned that?"

"Yeah," Jason scowled around his cigarette. "Didn't  _go_  as planned though—obviously."

Tim knew he'd done the right thing back then, but now that he was standing face to face with the person he'd inconvenienced, he couldn't help the twinge of polite embarrassment that washed over him. He quickly stamped it out.

"It's no big deal," the man continued calmly, as if he'd sensed the momentary discomfort. "To be honest, those idiots deserved it, trying to skip town with the stuff I'd stolen fair and square." He sighed. "I'll have to go thug shopping now, though. Good goons are hard to come by…"

The nonchalance was jarring to Tim, only because he knew more about that night than he was letting on.

"The car they were driving was stolen, Jason: armed robbery. I looked into it afterward." The teenager's expression hardened, staring the man down with as much determination as he could manage. The crime had been in the papers, and the license plate on the SUV—Tim had taken care to remember that. "It was a dad on his way to work, and now he's dead in a ditch somewhere. Do you think  _he_ deserved it?"

Undisturbed, the man tapped the butt of his cigarette, watching the ash scatter to the floor. It was a fire hazard, but Jason didn't seem to care—like death was something he invited, a good friend. But despite the wooden planks and the likelihood they'd catch the flames, the orange embers fizzled and died right there on the floor. Jason almost looked disappointed.

"Of course he deserved it." Tim flinched at the statement. "He was a dead-beat dad who abused his girlfriend and threatened to kill her when she tried to run away with their kid. The two moved in with her mom last week, and they're doing fine now." He returned the cigarette to his mouth, not looking at Tim. "Tell me: Do you think that's a fair trade? Sacrificing one piece of scum so that two people can go live a happy life?"

"…You could have arrested him at least. Gotten him counseling," Tim argued half-heartedly, surprised that Jason had done such a thorough job. "Maybe there was a reason he did it. Maybe he could've been helped."

"And maybe he could have killed the lady and kid while we sat on our hands and watched the blood dry," Jason was quick to reply, though there was a sense of casualness in his voice. "There's always a risk involved in this business. I'd rather risk the life of a piece of garbage like that than the lives of innocent people."

Tim digested the thought for a minute, Jason continuing to puff clouds of smoke in front of him. "Still…I feel like there has to be a better way. Does justice really have to be served by killing?"

"Gosh, you sound just like Bruce." Jason snorted out a laugh, the smoke escaping from his nostrils in two cloudy lines. "It's a sweet thought for a bumper-sticker, but the real world doesn't quite work that way. You should know that by now—with all your running around the streets these past two months: Earth is just a crummy rock loaded with crummy people who do crummy things. And if you want to make any difference on it, you've gotta be willing to make some sacrifices."

Tim watched as the man stood, flicking the cigarette through the window and bending to pick up his helmet. Jason fit it over his head as he paused beside Tim. "Here's some free advice, kid," the mechanical voice came. "Fearing what you don't know will only slow you down. Sometimes, you've just gotta be bold."

It was a strange comment, but the words struck a personal cord with Tim, who lately had been thinking only of how much about himself he didn't know. He wondered if somehow Jason knew what that felt like: not understanding himself. What all the man had been through—what all he'd seen—was a question bursting at the front of Tim's mind, but he swallowed down the curiosity.

Jason was already gone anyway, leaving behind his words and the faint smell of smoke.

* * *

The exchange had been replaying in Tim's mind all day. He hadn't been able to sleep much because of it, and frankly, even if he'd been able to doze off, he doubted it would've been restful.

Tim turned another corner, appreciating the salty sea air that was swirling and mixing with the winter chill. It was that sharp, dry kind of wind that kept him grounded in reality. That's where Tim needed to be right then—in the present—as he tried to think of what to do next.

Going back to his hideout probably wasn't a good idea. Jason knew about that, and as much as he hadn't asserted that Tim leave—hadn't even been hostile about it toward the end, the last thing Tim wanted was to go home to a place that should've been safe and wasn't.

He'd talk to Dick about it. Tim didn't really want to go to Wayne Manor, but maybe Dick had another place he could stay while he figured things out.  _Yeah_. He nodded to himself.  _I'll tell Dick_.

Tim jumped off a ledge and shot his grapnel, the familiar  _woosh_  of the line flying out and pulling him up onto the Millionaire's Club.

He was a bit earlier than usual (Dick probably wouldn't be coming for another hour at least.), but Tim was fine with that. The air was nice; the night clouds were gentle. He could sit and enjoy that for a while.

Tim hunkered down at their usual meeting place, dropping his legs over the edge and admiring the lights down below. They shined brighter in the fresh snow, and more flakes were falling in small circles, lazing until they settled on the ground, sweet and quiet.

Tim pulled his mask up to rest it on the top of his head, just enough to watch the display unhindered. The snow caught in his eyelashes and stung his skin, but it was still nice, sitting there in that tranquil silence that comes in winter.

It was the first time he'd seen snow.

Tim closed his eyes and resisted the urge to pull his mask back over his face. He wanted to stay there a while longer, trapped in that hushed world for a few more minutes, a few more lifetimes, but the new presence on the ledge was telling him that just wasn't possible.

He fought back the tired sigh building in his throat as he opened his eyes.

It was only a matter of time, really. An inexorable meeting of two people that couldn't be avoided any longer.

"What is it?" Tim breathed. He was observing a fleck of snow dancing in the city lights, shining a new color every time it turned, and he realized it was an unavoidable fact that it would hit the bottom too. The seasons change; the world changes. It should've been expected that Tim's life would change as well.

The teenager finally turned his head, taking in the figure crouched beside him.

Batman was watching the snow too. There was a cold solemnity there, etched somewhere in the lines of the man's face that the city lights tried to touch but couldn't.

"…I need your help with something."


	16. Cellars and Carousels

The crunching of fresh snow echoed across the compound, steady as the tick of a clock until one of the pair stopped. A set of mahogany horses were frozen nearby, paint faded and peeling away like dead skin. Sturdy poles were speared through their hearts, eyes widened in a way that resembled screams while their legs kicked out as they tried to break free from the confines that held them. It was no secret that they'd never be able to. They were trapped there, forever following in a circle that went round and round with no end in sight.

"We've got a ways left to go," a deep voice came, drawing Tim's attention back to the figure he'd been following. Batman stood there, white flakes perched on his shoulders like ashen bone, and the patches of snow at his feet highlighted the sad whites of the man's eyes. He looked tired. That was what Tim thought, standing in the middle of that ghostly place, one forgotten in time.

But Batman was right: If their destination was on the far side like he'd said, then they did have a ways left to go. So, Tim offered a quick nod before leaving behind the merry-go-round that'd been sitting beside him, horses still haunted by a pain that people somehow found delight in.

This place was an older part of the harbor, an amusement park on the northeast side that was laced with decay. Decrepit carnival stands sat crumbled in the winter wind, and wooden coasters stretched skyward like a Tower of Babel that was waiting to come crashing down on top of them.

It made something in Tim's stomach twist, and he quickened his pace a bit to come up closer to Batman.

The vigilante was watching him in a way that didn't need an explicit gaze. Tim could feel it, like he was silently keeping tabs on how Tim was fairing in this new environment. It was a thoughtful gesture, Tim guessed, albeit a bit detached.

Batman had been that way all night, though: detached, reserved. It was just setting in how different the man was than when Tim had first seen him a month ago, way back when he'd tracked him over rooftops and pondered how they were connected. Batman had been terrifying back then, itching to break the first thing that crossed him, but...he seemed much calmer now.

The teenager didn't know how to take that, really, but something about it made this feel a bit more manageable: being here, surrounded by eerie smiles painted on posters of people laughing and people screaming. Twisted mirrors were perched outside some of the buildings, ones that were chipped and broken and laying cracked on the ground, ones that made everything unnerving but Tim found himself being sucked into anyway.

"Stick close," Batman's voice came again. Tim hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking this time, gaze fixed on one of the mirrors. It was hard to focus here, hard to keep in touch with reality. He didn't know why that was, and he didn't ask, instead focusing on the steady sound of footsteps leading the way and the swirling cape in front of him.

"So, what is it exactly that you want me to do?" Tim posed. Anything to take his mind off where they were.

"That warehouse—It's one of the first places I checked two months ago." The man paused then, as if the statement had more weight than it did, like it was some kind of apology for not having found Tim there. But maybe that sentiment had been imagined, as Batman continued, "I want you to tell me if anything seems familiar. Something's off about it, and it might hold a clue as to what Joker's planning."

"Okay," Tim exhaled, feeling oddly lightheaded. He didn't want to be here, but Batman was with him. In all honesty, this was probably the safest place he could be, here with…

Tim looked up from watching the tips of that black cape. Batman was still in front of him, a living shadow. He was someone Tim had interacted with for only a minute before tonight, back before Tim had realized the connection between them. Most of his knowledge on the man came from newspapers, but right then, it was occurring to Tim how little he knew about this person, someone who was supposedly family, linked by law and time. It was more awkward than Tim had been expecting, that weird feeling of trying to make a good first impression but consistently falling flat. He didn't even know the right way of addressing this person.

Well…Dick had a habit of calling him "Bruce." Maybe that was a good place to start.

Bruce had stopped by then, and Tim realized his reverie had been a better distraction than he'd anticipated. They were already in front of the warehouse, brick comprising the outside in the color of dust. Someone else must have realized it was a tad drab, as the whole building had been splashed with neon paint, the kind that contrasted with the original color in a sickening fashion.

Bruce didn't seem fazed by it, however, stepping right up to the entrance and pushing the door open. It gave easily enough, bits of snow rushing in to fill the space as Tim followed.

Instantly, the teenager's foot met with a set of playing cards, lost to the concrete floors on the inside. Tim quickly stepped off them, the aversion galvanized more by instinct than anything else, and back to the entryway where he could better absorb the new environment.

The whole place reeked of insanity. Masks decorated the walls, the porcelain pulled up into pained smiles, along with cards and other knickknacks set loose in a disarray that would come off as childish if not for the madness of them. There was a musty stench that permeated the place too, the kind that stung and made someone wonder how long the area'd been abandoned. The dust-coated crates stacked on top of each other hinted that it must have been a long time.

In the span it took for that to set in, Bruce had wandered forward, leaving Tim in the entryway as he moved to examine one of the larger crates. "This wasn't here before," the man muttered to himself, tapping the side of his mask. Bruce continued to analyze the piece, an ordinary box from the looks of it. But Tim had to agree: There was less dust on the top, indicating that it was suspicious and not to be trusted.

That much became apparent when something started creaking from the inside, gears groaning in a muffled way that slowly gained traction, and Bruce leapt away. It was almost like being knocked unconscious with the way the world suddenly went dark, Tim's vision lost somewhere between the folds of a cape and the feeling of being yanked back.

A large pop exploded followed by the release of what must have been a spring. Tim couldn't really see it, still consumed by the bulletproof interior of the cloak and the sound of someone else's heartbeat. But after a long moment, Bruce must have decided the danger had passed, and the fabric slipped away as if it'd never been there at all.

"Thanks," Tim mumbled, silently wishing the contact hadn't left when his gaze met with the ghoulish grin of a large jester, its head dangling awkwardly off the spring like it'd been decapitated mid-joke. "Welcome!" was painted over the yellowed teeth in an oily black that matched the raven eyes looking down on them, and awkward clumps of confetti now littered the floors, all of them crimson like drops of—

 _It's just a Jack-in-the-Box_ , Tim reprimanded himself.  _Nothing to get spooked over._  He took a small breath, one that was supposed to be a calming gesture, but in reality, it only made him more unnerved.

If he'd picked up on that unease, Bruce didn't say. He was too busy looking over the object before them, eyes tracing the letters with mild interest. "Joker was expecting us. He must know you're still alive, then."

"Guess so," Tim voiced hesitantly, shadowing Bruce as he circled the crate. "Um, I take it you've already combed the place for cameras?"

"I sent out an EMP as well," the man answered. "No one's watching." Bruce looked away from the box then, eyes trained on Tim with a mechanic smoothness that bordered on the unhuman; he was asking for him to elaborate.

"I think I might know how Joker found out about that—that I'm alive, I mean." Tim cast one more glance around the place, the topic of someone anticipating his death an unnerving one at best. No one was there, though. There was only his adoptive father, watching him intently. "I don't know if Nightwing told you, but two weeks ago, we came across a pair of men who'd been spiked with Fear Toxin. One of them mentioned something that…someone had gotten away and that they hadn't told their boss until that night. They weren't able to say anything more, but maybe…"

After a pause, Bruce gave a calculating nod, eyes returned forward. "Yes, I was aware of that: They were Joker's men. I'd imagine they were talking about you, and if that's true, it's very possible Joker didn't know his plan had failed until that night—whatever it'd been."

That made sense, although Tim was curious what it was that Joker'd had up his sleeve. Hopefully that night would yield some answers, but the longer they stayed, the more Tim wished he didn't have to be present to uncover them.

By then, they'd moved on to another area of shipping crates, Bruce deciding to recheck everything it seemed. That didn't leave much for Tim to do but look around, avoiding the obvious "homey" touches the Joker must have added in favor of skimming the boxes around them. There was mold growing up around the bottom rim of all the crates, and the darkened patches leveled off about three feet above ground.

"There's been a flood here?"

Bruce grunted out an affirmative, clicking something else on his mask, and the white lenses flashed a vibrant red. "This stretch of Amusement Mile is plagued by floods. It was built during the Industrial Boom, but it went bankrupt from the damage. Joker made it a play house for himself instead, although he hasn't used it in nearly a decade."

"The perfect time to reuse it…" Tim added quietly, brushing dust off the top of one of the crates.

"That's what I'd assumed," Bruce concurred. "Looking back now, I imagine he jumped locations frequently that month to throw me off. He's built quite a few hideouts for himself over the years."

The teenager hummed softly in agreement. Dick had said that month had been chaos, and Tim was surprised Bruce had even had the time. Still, it was nice to hear he'd been looked for at least, although it hadn't been explicitly stated. Tim was gathering that was just how Bruce was, robotic and shallow on the outside, but to construct a mantle like that of Batman, he must have cared quite a lot somewhere in there.

Tim stole a furtive glance the man's way.

Then again, Dick had also mentioned something about Bruce and Tim not getting along before. What had it been that had caused such a divide between them, the father and son who once had been so content in the photographs Tim had seen? The teenager supposed he could've just asked, but that didn't seem like something one could do with Bruce: ask a personal question. Besides, Tim would probably figure it out eventually. That was what he was good at, after all.

Tim's gaze drifted away to a spot on the ground just within eyeshot, allowing himself to get lost in his mind for a moment. It wasn't a bad place to get lost in, better than being there surrounded by masks and boxes, and the teenager didn't mind keeping his sight focused on that small spot on the floor. To be honest, it was almost like he couldn't look away…

"Does that look familiar?" Bruce interrupted, materializing beside Tim so fast it almost made him shoot right out of his skin.

"No!" Tim blurted out on reflex before reeling himself in. "No. I…was just looking." The teenager's vision was pulled back there reluctantly, silently betraying him. It was better than making eye contact with Bruce, however. (The man didn't seem convinced in the slightest.) And Tim's plight wasn't made any easier by the way his heartbeat was sounding in his ears, a heady rush that was so strong it almost knocked him over right where he stood. Because Bruce was right to ask: It did look familiar. It did and—

_"Sometimes, you've just gotta be bold."_

"Wait," Tim worked out before he lost his nerve, and Bruce's attention sharpened. "That…I've seen that before."

Bruce's eyes bore into him for another moment until he swiftly walked over to the spot. Tim followed against his will, pulled there by some invisible force that had to know what was there, why it was familiar. There wasn't much to see, just a slab of concrete that Bruce was kneeled in front of. Only…it looked like it wasn't as solid as the others, not quite as heavy.

"You haven't been here before, right?" Bruce asked, almost rhetorical as he shot Tim a serious look. The teenager nodded his head in reply. He hadn't even seen this place—at least, he thought he hadn't.

That notion was pulled into question when Bruce popped the slab up, sliding it back. It left only a dark pit, some obscure light reflecting about five feet below that shimmered and twisted as if it was cast on the surface of water. That's what it must have been, actually, part of the floodwaters that hadn't yet receded.

"What…What is it?" Tim felt stupid for asking, but a visceral fear was shooting down his form, gripping his organs and attempting to straighten them while all his thoughts could do were get even more tangled. But knowledge made that panic more manageable. It had since the very beginning, and Tim held on to that reasoning, because something about this—It made him feel like he was losing his mind.

Bruce was still pinning him there with that firm look, as if he was trying to read the teenager's thoughts and judge if it was really all right for him to be there. But Tim's focus was fixed on that hole underground, feeling the man's gaze more than seeing it, and it took a long moment before Bruce replied, "A cellar. Speakeasy members from the Prohibition stashed alcohol here. I've already looked through it."

It was a simple explanation, and something about the fact that Bruce had ventured down there once before dispelled some of Tim's unease. Still, Bruce only seemed more concerned.

"Stay here," he said, moving to jump down himself when someone caught him.

"I'm coming too."

Bruce's eyes flashed back, the white so intense it was almost as if they were glowing, but Tim held the gaze through his own mask. Whatever was down there, Tim couldn't keep running from it, no matter how horrible it may have been. This was what this past month had been for, finding himself again, and somehow, he knew that this was where it started, could feel that realization pumping through his veins and prickling on his skin.

He didn't want to, but...

"I have to know."

It wasn't until that moment that Tim realized how panic-stricken he sounded, all attempts at making his voice firm suddenly negligible, but he didn't look away, hoping his posture looked more determined than he felt.

A few more seconds passed in which Bruce held the gaze, vetting him sternly. Eventually, the man must have come to some decision as he averted his attention to the cellar. "Alright." And just like that, all that remained of the figure was the vestige of a black cape slipping down through the opening; Tim was alone there above.

The teenager took a deep breath, ignoring the burn of dust-filled air and the vague scent of alcohol, before following. There was that predictable splash of water licking at his knees, everything from his feet to his calves soaked through to the bone the instant he landed. Tim was briefly reminded of the sewers he'd maneuvered through two weeks ago until Bruce clicked on a flashlight, the beam squirming on top of the liquid and stone walls. It was only then that the teenager noticed the crimson rimming the patches of light caught in the ripples, because the water—Why…

_Why is it red?_

There was a spike of terror that shot through Tim's blood, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound and sight and the way his heart stopped. Some of the disturbed water was lapping at the walls, sounding like a drum in the deafening quiet, and toppled racks laid mostly-consumed by the water as if they were dying, struggling to breathe.

At that reminder, Tim realized he'd been holding his breath, taking a sharp inhale that shockingly didn't smell like iron and plasma, just of liquor. His eyes whirled back to the racks, noting the fact there must have been broken bottles caught underneath them and—That was why.

 _It's wine_ , Tim breathed; the water was tinted red, because it was mixed with  _wine._

The teenager allowed himself to stand there for another moment, trying to get his mind to stop churning and just  _think straight._  To focus on the sound of someone else moving in front of him, someone else there who so far had had all the answers, knew everything there was to know and that Tim was fine.

But the sudden onset of claustrophobia that came with being trapped underground, walled in by apathetic stone seven feet under, didn't go away just because Tim willed it to. If anything, the longer he stood there, the more acute it became. It felt like he'd been entombed, buried alive and stuck there for years that were only just surfacing.

He snapped his eyes closed. Anything to focus, to keep everything pulled together because it suddenly felt like two different worlds were overlapping and he was getting crushed between them. His grip on where he was and what was happening was slipping through his fingertips. That much was obvious when Tim opened his eyes again to find that he wasn't standing in the entrance anymore.

He was in front of a wall now, vaguely aware of Bruce behind him, watching him. That's what Tim was doing too, looking through the darkness at where he'd placed a hand on a stone in the wall, brought there by some uncanny force that was outside of his control, because he shouldn't have known that, known exactly which stone to push inward to have the wall give way.

It was all Tim could do to stare. A mixture of feelings crashed into him like a torrent, so overwhelming that the new entrance in front of him hardly processed, a giant of slick metal that he only barely realized must have been shielded with lead. It would've been dense enough to scramble any sensors trying to find the opening, to keep anyone from noticing an extra space in the cellar that  _shouldn't have been there_.

Tim closed his eyes, the realization of what this was sinking in.

He'd been here.

This was it.

A simple "wait here" came from beside him as a figure moved forward and the door swung open to reveal a raised corridor, the flashlight sweeping over the cramped walls. Tim didn't need his eyes to know what was there, but his sight connected with it anyway, something he'd seen before in dreams and nightmares: a door at the end of the hall.

That was the last thing that processed sensibly, everything afterward flashing like strobe lights. Hundreds of images flickered in front of Tim's eyes, all of them vibrant and vivid while the darkness of the cellar fell away into nothing. It was as if present and past had flipped. Memory became as grounded as reality, things he'd never experienced appearing with terrifying cogency.

There were white flowers and splashes of red, the chamber of a gun and a slip of gold, all of it overwhelming to the point where Tim sensed his back hitting against one of the storage racks but there wasn't any noise, just that weird feeling of being half-aware, stuck between a stage of sleep and wakefulness, waiting to jerk awake but he already was: He was awake. It was like being drowned, like suffocating and heart attacks and someone was in front of him, saying his name but the sound never reached, a wall in the way even though there were hands on his shoulders trying to keep him upright against the awareness that  _he couldn't breathe_.

_"I need you to know this, Tim: It's not your fault, okay? You didn't do this."_

Suddenly, Dick was there, burned onto the inside of Tim's eyelids and clothed in a black cape. Car headlights haloed him from behind, and he should let Tim go, stop questioning him because Bruce was  _alive_. Bruce was alive, and Tim was going to prove it, even if it was the last thing he did.

"Tim, you need to breathe!"

_"I love you, Tim. I love you just like your mother loves you."_

He was lying in a desert, stars filling the sky and crimson filling the sand. A sword wound through his torso, other people around him bleeding out, and  _I thought I would die as Robin…_

_"What you do for all those people—It's worth it, Tim. Never question it."_

There was a twist in his gut, that feeling of being caught between two steps on a flight of stairs, that he was going to be sent crashing into the ground and his skull was going to split wide open. A warm pressure was growing up around a spot behind his neck, a hollow space right next to his spine, and things were fuzzing, fading into blackness.

_"Tell Bruce to take care of you."_

And that was the last thing he heard.


	17. L'alouette Rouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic references for those who are interested are Red Robin #1, #4, #12, and #26, Batman: A Lonely Place of Dying, and Identity Crisis #6-7.

Tile greeted him from below.

That wasn't what Tim had been expecting when he reopened his eyes, because all he could remember before had been black. But there was just white now, simple and cool beneath the soles of his feet. The tile flooring was too opaque to yield much more than vague reflections shivering on its surface, but the images were clear enough to make out a wisp of raven hair, enough to tell Tim that he was still himself. He'd never seen himself looking so casual before, though: Shorts and a black T-shirt weren't things he'd ever worn—not in memory. The red "S" on the front of the shirt looked oddly familiar, however.

After scrutinizing the symbol for another minute, Tim brought his eyes up.

Details were slowly filling in, pencil sketches that were being defined into something more, and time felt eternal here, meandering and pleasant like the confines of life and death couldn't exist. That wasn't a rational thought, so Tim knew that should've bothered him. Of course he could die here. Right?

For whatever reason, Tim wasn't sure—wasn't sure about a lot of things—and so he was all right taking in the small kitchen he was standing in, trying to piece together, to recall, to understand.

There were the normal things you've find in that kind of room: An oven and stove slept beside a sink while a white-faced fridge was tucked between a set of oak cabinets. The walls were coming in too, simple and unadorned, and Tim could make out a flight of stairs outside of the space, still vague and unfinished but slowly getting colored in. It didn't induce much more than curiosity. Yet somehow, it felt dangerous to investigate, like if Tim wandered too far, he might dissolve in the monochrome and never find his way back.

But here was fine. Like he'd been in this room hundreds of times before, had maybe even belonged here at one point among the comforting quiet of a settling apartment and the smell of—of—

_Home?_

A noise sounded, laminate bending.

It drew the teenager's attention. There was someone else here, he realized. He'd been alone a few seconds ago, but now, there was a boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. The child was arranging a pile of photographs, neatly lining the bottoms up with the tile grouting, and it didn't look like he'd taken any notice of Tim.

Tim noticed the boy, though.

More than noticed, really. More like recognized, because he'd seen that black hair and blue eyes and pale skin before. Because as much as Tim was seventeen then, he could still recognize himself at the age of nine.

It was all bordering on an out of body experience, and yet, Tim was getting the feeling that this whole thing—It was the opposite, that he was stuck inside his head somewhere that was broken from reality. Tim guessed he should've felt panicked. That would have been the expected response: alarm, disorder, confusion. There wasn't anything but calm, though, an emotion that wasn't fleeting but a part of him instead. This all felt normal, normal as tennis practice after school or hanging out with…with Ives. Right. Those had been normal at one point—same as this now. Some tired part of him repeated that that normalcy was true, over and over, so Tim watched and wondered and waited, a younger version of himself organizing photographs one by one while Tim pondered if this was a memory or something more intrinsic.

After a few minutes of silence, the teenager decided to try shifting his weight a bit. Tim's bizarre companion didn't respond, only pulled up another photograph to examine, so Tim felt it was okay to poke around. Getting too close too soon didn't seem like a good plan, however, so Tim settled for walking over to the fridge instead, the door face catching his eye. A separate collection of photos were pinned there with magnets. All of them congregated around the bottom of the door, indicating the display was a child's work. Tim couldn't fight a sad smile at the innocence of that, maybe even at the nostalgia, because he quickly realized the photos were all of the same two people, always a set of brown and blue eyes, the couple coated in desert dust. A thought rose like something getting washed up on sand, and Tim understood: He was looking at Mom and Dad.

"They're always gone."

Tim's eyes snapped to the side. His younger self was continuing to sort photos from his spot on the floor, but it still stood that the boy had talked. Tim hadn't been expecting that, having read this as some place that he couldn't interact with. But apparently, he could.

"They'll be back next week," the boy continued, eyes glued to the slip in his fingers. "I don't mind." He lined up another photo along the slowly-forming grid. Each picture was being treated like something delicate, something important. Tim had done a similar thing himself: arranged photos and newspaper clippings on the floor in an effort to understand. The need to investigate what the boy was trying to solve pulled Tim over to stand beside his younger self.

Dozens of images gazed up at him, copy after copy of a man in a black cape with piercing eyes. A grinning boy accompanied the man, one donning bright colors that looked even brighter by contrast. The smiling boy was in every last photo, always present, until the very last row: The boy was gone.

_Jason._

In the time it took for the name to come, his younger self had disappeared from his spot on the floor, leaving only the grid of photographs and a vague feeling that said Tim should check behind himself. The instant the premonition settled, Tim's eyes snapped over his shoulder, assuming he'd find the person from earlier but only meeting someone a few years older. Still himself. But now matching the bright colors from the photographs, a green mask present along with a gold cape.

"Don't you see? Batman  _needs_  Robin," the boy spoke, the words coming like they'd been said thousands of times. "He needs him to remember what he used to be—before his parents died."

"Robin," Tim breathed to himself, eyes tracing the silent "R" pinned to his younger's chest. Dick had mentioned it, that Tim had been Robin once, but to see it—That's what made it feel real.

Robin only tilted his head slightly, looking at Tim and yet seeming like he was seeing someone else there entirely. "I never thought of becoming Robin," the boy answered, although to whom, Tim wasn't sure, "but with Batman training me, I can do it. Batman has to have a Robin. No matter what he thinks."

"Tim?"

Robin vanished like dust, leaving Tim alone as his attention turned to a phone on the counter top. He stared, counted. One second. Two seconds. Maybe he'd just imagined the name, but he was quickly proven wrong.

"Tim, it's Dick. I know you're there," the receiver crackled. "C'mon, Tim. Pick up. Pick up." Tim stared at the corded phone, unsure if he really should answer. (Something was telling him he shouldn't.) But his fingers hesitantly slipped around the handset, anyway. "Please, kiddo. I know you can hear me," the voice came again, crinkled and faraway, and Tim finally pulled the speaker up to his ear, a few fingers looping around the coiled cord as he answered.

"Dick?"

"Tim!" The relief was expected, but Tim hadn't been anticipating how exhausted Dick would sound, like he'd been calling dozens of times—more than just the one instance Tim had heard. "Tim, I'm here. You're home, and everything's gonna be fine. I just need you to wake up, alright?" (Wake up? Wasn't he already awake?) "Tim?" Concern. "Tim, you still with me?" A few other voices echoed in the background, Tim struggling to focus on them, identify them among the shriek of something like bats, until a fuzz of static took over along with a new voice.

"You listening, Tim?"

The teenager flinched, blood running cold, and for the first time since Tim had opened his eyes here, things felt wrong. Something was happening on the other end of the line, and there was this strange feeling that Tim was moving, that things were streaming past him through a car window despite the fact he was standing still. Cool tile still nipped at his toes; hazy dreams still surrounded him. But something was wrong.

"Good," the man answered at the silence. "Then understand one thing: If you don't get here, it's not your fault."

Tim inhaled sharply, something clicking that this voice was familiar, that this conversation was familiar, and that there was only one person who could be on the other end.

"Dad…" Tim tried.

"I need you to know this, Tim. It's not your fault, okay? You didn't do this."

"But I…"

 _I don't understand_.

"I love you, Tim. I love you just like your mother loves you. And what you do for all those people, it's worth it, Tim. Never question it." Dad's voice was quieting, panicking but trying to sound ready for what was going to happen. "It's worth it." A mantra. "It's worth it."

"Dad, we're almost…"

_We're almost there. We're almost—We're…_

We?

Right. Two people. He and Bruce, and things would be okay even though they weren't; things weren't going to resolve, go back to being normal—if they'd ever been—because all that had happened the night after this phone call was Tim being pulled back by black cloth against red floors of this same apartment, this same room, and being told it'd be okay. Dad was gone but…Bruce wasn't, so it'd be okay.

It would.

"Tell Bruce to take care of you," Dad said, hoped.

(If only Bruce would be there.)

Something shattered, what Tim knew should've been door hinges screaming under a kick and bullets being discharged from a gun. He didn't remember there being glass. The phone was dead, nothing more than fizzling coming through the speaker like twisting geometrics, so Tim looked for something that'd fallen in the room he was in, something else to account for the splintering noise.

It didn't take long to find it: A shattered picture frame sat on the floor at Tim's feet. Stern, ice-blue eyes stared back from behind the broken glass, a focus there that Tim somehow knew, understood.

"He's alive."

Tim's gaze flickered up from the old portrait, one that he'd seen at Wayne Manor. The one that changed everything, because—

"Bruce is alive," a shadow reiterated from the corner of the room, a slip of crimson with an emblem cresting the black. A golden bird. "He's out there somewhere. He's all I have and he has to be alive."

The statement processed, images rising like tides of himself standing in Prague and Berlin, buildings built like tombs and hopeless lights shining because Tim didn't belong there. He belonged in Gotham, belonged among steel and statues, but Bruce was out there.

Because somewhere, there was a carving, one that meant nothing but conversely meant everything. Because there was a world of difference between being lost in time and being dead, a nuance that pulsed with electricity and potential and hope.

"We find him…don't we?" Tim asked emptily, because he already knew.

"We do," white eyes answered from the corner. "But Bruce isn't the one who's lost anymore. Is he?"

Tim paused, expecting a sign that said the question hadn't been directed at him and instead at space or someone from memory. The figure in the corner didn't move, however, waited. He was asking Tim.

"I guess not," the teenager offered, still wary of his doppelganger in the corner. There was a silent understanding growing that this person had access to everything Tim had been before, like it'd be so easy to know it all—to know more than just the whispers of memories slipping through cracks. But…

_Do I want to know?_

"It's your choice," the figure posed suddenly. "I can't promise all happy memories. Robin, Red Robin, all of us came from tragedy, but through all of that pain and insanity, one thing's always stayed the same with us: Mysteries are something we can't leave unsolved for long."

Tim watched the figure for another moment, measuring his breaths. It was a mystery. That's what this all was: himself. Everything.  _But do I want to solve it?_

"There's only one question left."

_Do I want to…_

A gold crest flickered.

_…know?_

"Do you want to know who we are?"

Tim counted a few more breaths, waiting, debating—like an answer would spring up if he only stalled long enough. The only thing that came was more questions and more uncertainty: Would something about the darkest part of his past consume him? It could, but would not knowing consume him anyway? Tim didn't know. There was no way to, but knowing and not knowing—It didn't matter. It didn't, because Tim couldn't run from this, from the very core of himself and his past and his life.

_"Fearing what you don't know will only slow you down."_

And that left only one thing to do, one word to say.

_"Sometimes, you've just gotta be bold."_

"Alright."

Tim stilled cautiously, waiting for something to feel different. Something did, he guessed, a sort of uncanny quiet spreading like frost on glass. His doppleganger was gone, too, and Tim felt he should've done the same because even existing now seemed as though it could break the earth in two. Nothing happened, though. Just unsettling silence marred by the sound of his own breaths. He almost feared he'd be stuck there forever.

That was when, suddenly, the quiet melted, air itself turning liquid and rushing away faster and faster. It felt like reality was falling and rising simultaneously, like being trapped in the jolt of an elevator right before it comes to a stop. And that—That was exactly what happened next: Things jerked to a stop.

Tim wasn't sure when he'd been knocked into a kneel, but that was how he found himself next, eyes trained around the bend of a steel crate. He flinched at the unfamiliarity of the new environment, at the red emergency lights flickering on steel walls and the black cape weighing down his shoulders. It sounded like metal was grinding somewhere, screeching iron and turnings' sparks echoing in the distance. A sharp panic of how he got here struck Tim's chest, and it must have shown on his face.

"Red Robin."

Tim's eyes whipped to his side; he wasn't alone, a younger boy hunched beside him with a serious if not indignant expression on his face. Tim could only make out his form when the lights flashed crimson, but he was there, white eyes boring into him intently.

 _Damian_ , some part of his mind processed.  _We're at Crane's lab from two months ago._

"Not getting cold feet, are you?" Damian drawled, eyebrow raised above his mask. A few cuts were drawn into his face, not enough to bleed noticeably but enough to know that he wasn't in his best shape; something whispered that it was rare to find even a fleck of dust on him. "If you are," Damian continued, "perhaps we should switch roles. I'm more than capable enough to hold off a few people while you get assista—"

A crash of footsteps and howls cut off the sentence, the pair waiting on bated breath for the din to die down again. It was painfully obvious that it took more than "a few" people to make that much noise.

"No. You'll have a better chance of getting through the vents," Tim murmured, mind dissolving into the memory as if living it for the first time. "Crane must've known we were coming. I'll make an opening, see if I can't find the control room or something, and you get out, alright?"

Damian looked unconvinced, but to Tim's surprise he was at least considering the plan. He'd gotten better since working with Dick, more calm and level-headed. Or maybe he was just tired. They were running out of options, and it felt like the atmosphere was thickening into something molten, the heat of it making movement seem less an imperative and more an impossibility. Tim could hear its effects in the heft of his brother's breath, could see it in the pallor of his skin.

"Someone must have tampered with the heating units," Damian observed thickly, the same thought at the front of Tim's mind. He could already see his own body temperature displayed digitally in his lenses. It was hitting dangerously high, already having crested one hundred degrees, and Tim suspected heatstroke wasn't far off if they lingered much longer.

"Robin—" Damian glanced up at the name. "—We don't have much time."

"…Very well," the boy acquiesced hesitantly. "I agree to your plan, as foolish as it may be. But if we are to do this, then…" Another flash of red cycled across his face, all narrowed eyes and what might have been an ounce of concern. Eventually, though, Damian straightened himself as if sloughing emotions off altogether. "I am going to be honest with you," he started, business-like. "You're the last person I'd wish to die beside."

Tim suppressed a groan. "This isn't really the time for—"

"So, I have a request," and Tim was taken aback by the determination in the words, by the faint streak of worry in his younger's face. "Don't die."

The appeal was unexpected to say the least. It left Tim at a loss for words, now taking in the person beside him with calm surprise. Part of himself was questioning if he hadn't misheard, wasn't just confused because that can happen with heat exhaustion, he'd heard. "Yeah," Tim breathed out in the end. "Yeah, same to—"

The moment was killed by something shattering a ways away, like a pipe bursting only determinately larger. Tim could tell Damian was running the numbers too, trying to piece together what had happened ( _Pressure shift from the temperature change,_ Tim figured.), but ultimately, it didn't matter. Because the noise drew a crowd, and it signaled their time was up.

"Now!" Tim barked, bolting from safety.

His ears barely picked up the whicker of Damian's cape behind him before Tim was instantly swarmed by a clump of figures, so close together and erratic that they seemed amorphous. Tim could recognize some of them from the GCPD's missing persons lists, now gangly-like and gaunt-faced. Crane's guinea pigs. Hurting them too much was out of the question. But still—He flipped one over his shoulder, side-stepping another—they weren't rational, weren't predictable. With all of the drugs pumping through their systems, using any kind of anesthetic gas was out of the question as well.

The fact still stood, though: Tim had to buy time.

A calculating spin of his staff sent two figures spiraling into the wall—a thud, the pair collapsing to the floor. It allowed Tim one precious, all-encompassing second. Long enough for a smoke bomb to find its way into his hand.

His best bet was behind him, entwined in the pattern of Damian's barely-there footsteps, in the idea that word would get out to Bruce and Dick. They had to make it, he repeated, rolling the pellet to his fingertips. They would.

And yet, all it took was one sound to cut that yarn of hope mid-spin.

Because a gunshot wasn't a sound that belonged here: None of Crane's people had guns. A rush of panic hit shrieking that Damian was in trouble, said Tim would never be able to forgive himself if something happened to the kid. It took only one moment for the smoke bomb to hit the floor and one more for Tim to break free from the group. The rest of everything bled into red flashes blurred by heat and dyspnea and gunshot fire. Instinct continued screaming that he had to make it to Damian, couldn't stop now. The reason why hit the moment his mind registered a line leaving his hands and catching his younger brother's ankle scarcely a second before it'd been too late. Tim was tugged against the railing of the landing he was now on, sight snapping down to face the morass of machinery waiting below. Directly beneath, a gigantic CNC lathe was carving around chunks of metal, going too fast to be safe while an army of metal spools spun off in popping sparks. Damian had one arm pulled up over his head as effete protection, the other keeping his cape from getting caught in the whir of the machine. He was barking out something that Tim couldn't process over the noise, face broken in something uncannily akin to horror.

It only took a moment to learn why.

"Looks like today, I get to kill two birds with one stone."

Tim recognized that voice, that cackle bubbling up. The blood drained from his face in realization ( _He shouldn't be here._ ), but his attention was already turning in slow motion. The barrel of the gun processed first, the burnish of a Beretta M9. Then a face twisted into a grin, talc skin flickering deadly red in the light, and Tim knew it was over. He knew that better than his own name.

It remained a weird feeling, even after four-years-worth of it—to be a second away from not being at all. Tim had been there hundreds of times and it was the same then. Those are the moments that undo people, undo grudges and morals and lines in the sand.

Because as much as Tim had been avoiding him for weeks now, as much as he was still torn over Harkness and if killing ever had a part in their roles as vigilantes, every piece of him prayed right then that Bruce would get there in time. If not for him, then for Damian, because the thought of seeing that disappointed gleam in Bruce's eyes again, that look that said, "You've let me down," and hit some primal core of Tim's being—He'd rather die than be on the receiving end of it again, not for this. Not for failing to save instead of failing to kill. And so, when Tim swung the line as hard as he could, hoping and praying Damian would land somewhere safe, two words carved lines into his mind.

_Please come._

"What are you going to do now, little birdy?"

_Please come._

The pull of a trigger.

"Drake!"

_Please co—_

* * *

And that was where it was supposed to have ended. Tim knew it, had prepared himself for that outcome and made quick peace with life as it was.

But that was the thing: It wasn't over.

Tim blinked once. Not out of surprise, but the calm, slow type. Half there. Time had skipped again, his vision now blurry and thick, laced with spots of light and an overall fog that made it difficult to focus on anything. Wherever "here" was, there was a general smell of decay, ferruginous—a shipping yard, maybe. Some place near the ocean with brine in the air and smog that settled on his skin. The smells weren't strong, per se, but after days (weeks?) of stale air, the effect was enough to do him in, like he was one breath away from slipping back into a blackout. Then again, there were times where that idea wasn't unwelcome.

Right now, for instance.

"Looks like Bats never did come, did he?" Joker mused from where he loomed a few feet away, all slick hair and slick words with a strychnine sting. The man was leaned against the interior wall of what Tim hazily gathered was a transport van. The open back doors were the only source of light, casting odd shadows over the man's face and brightening his eyes, laser-like. Tim didn't force himself to meet them. That was never a good place to be, looking into the eyes of a killer, so Tim did the only thing that felt natural anymore: watching, not thinking. Waiting.

It left his vision blurred around the boutonniere on his captor's suit jacket, a simple white camellia. It'd been getting harder to focus on anything else lately, anything past the heave of his shoulders with each exhale and the glow of petals so wintry that Tim considered he might get snow blight if he didn't look away. It wasn't like it mattered, he supposed. In some ways, going blind would've been a solace.

"You know I really thought Bats  _would_  come," Joker was still saying, like the thought was his favorite thing to bring up when Tim was there; he said it often enough. "But sometimes you just can't trust men with a mission. And Batsy, well…  _He's_  a man with a mission." Joker tilted his head consideringly for a moment. "Actually, when it's put that way, it's no surprise why you're still here. People who don't make the cut—Deadweight like  _us_. We don't matter to those kinds of people, Timmy. Can I call you Timmy?"

Tim didn't budge. His mask had been gone for days by then. Joker didn't seem to care much about his identity, however, didn't care about the potential of knowing Batman's or Nightwing's or anyone's. It'd ruin the game to think about it too much, Tim guessed.

"Did Batsy promise he'd protect you?" Joker laughed mockingly, taking steps closer that Tim said didn't bother him but did. "Promised he'd  _die_  before letting anything bad happen to you? Too bad, really. Last I checked, the Bat's still kicking and you're…" Green eyes raked him up and down, implying a "here." A "forgotten." "Now, I'm no gambling man, but I think if our favorite commissioner was here instead of you, Bats would've been here days ago. After all, Gordon flips on that handy signal of his, and the Dark Knight comes a-running." Joker was close enough by then for one of his hands to grip at the back of Tim's neck, the crawling touch burning into the tip of a carved insignia in his skin that Tim knew by heart as Bruce's, the marks still ruddy and fresh. He'd seen the symbol in the clouds all his life. "Funny," Joker mused, glib grin on display. "Looks like the symbol doesn't work the same for you."

 _It's not true_ , Tim repeated, almost said it aloud. They'd moved him multiple times, used lead shielding on the doors because not even Superman could see through lead. It meant caution, meant someone was searching. Tim breathed that truth, but still, it'd been days, perhaps weeks. Months. It was setting in that…maybe he was on his own.

"Why don't you just kill me already?"

An expression of faux sympathy crossed Joker's face, the kind people get when they've stepped on a dog's tail and are trying to explain that they didn't mean any harm. "Now why would I do a little thing like that?"

"Because," Tim replied thickly, eyes glued to snow petals with a deadened sort of focus, "you're planning to do it sooner or later."

Joker recoiled with faint surprise—maybe even offense—before squatting down directly in front of the teenager. Tim could feel the man's eyes trained on him intently before Joker pursed his lips in something akin to agreement. "You know, after all these years, I like to think of us as friends. And I hear friends are supposed to be honest with each other, so..." He nodded blasély. "Yeah. I'm gonna kill you. I promised you I would years ago, and if I'm not a man of my word then—" A shrug. "—I don't know what I am. But what I really don't understand is why you would think that I'd want to make your death so… _purposeless_." The man flourished his hand in disgust, as if disregarding the idea with the gesture. "If I wanted that then I wouldn't have shot you with a phony round at Crane's place, now would I? After all, that's the one thing I regret about the second birdboy." Emerald eyes snapped closed, clearly milking each word. "Not being able to savor Mr. Bats' face when he realized he was too little too late. Hoo, how I wish I could'a seen that one: Batsy and his little,  _charred_  bird."

At the mention of Jason, Tim found himself able to pull off a glare, one of the few he'd had spite enough to manage. It was the solid, cold type Bruce had mastered, and he hoped it served some form of justice to Jason, wherever he was.

"You're insane."

Immediately, a hand was gripping the underside of his jaw, not tight enough to make it difficult to breathe but strong enough to make Tim look the man in the eye. He held the stare for a moment, locked with green eyes sparking with wildfire and burned copper. It was the look of someone who lived on that demented adrenaline rush of pushing someone over the brink and pulling them back for the sole purpose of doing it again. Tim loathed how quickly his determination withered in the face of it; he was the first to look away.

The silence afterward must have only been a second long, but the pause that filled the air felt like it lasted hours upon hours. Then, suddenly, all tension vanished, like someone had snapped and disbanded it, and Joker was cackling with his head thrown back. The laugh died in mercurial fashion, an instantaneous change. "You know Harvey, right?" Joker asked casually, releasing his hold and leaning back on his heels.

Tim didn't answer.

"Yeah, those people in Arkham," Joker whickered, nodding jerkily. "Now  _those_  people are crazy. I've done time there, so you can trust your Uncle Joker on this." He leaned forward again in earnest. "The thing is, though: The more time you spend with those… _crazy_  people, right? The more you realize they've got a point. Take good ol' Harvey, for example." A quarter appeared in the man's hand, a children's magic trick Tim knew the secret to, and yet Joker flashed it all the same with a hint of crazed pride, as if he'd surprised even himself with the feat. "He really likes these coins. Likes these pairs of things, and one time, it hit me they're a lot like people. The coin is us, see, and on one side we've got sanity, and on the flip side—" The coin flicked around. "—we've got insanity. But you've gotta remember:  _We_  are the coin. That's the joke, kid. There are two sides to us, and we can't ever see which one we land on. Are we sane or not?" He leaned closer still, the proximity of it enough to make Tim flatten himself even more against the wall behind him.

"We just don't know, do we? So, we've got sane people claiming they're sane, and those people in Arkham—they're all just loons claiming they're sane too. But no one really knows for sure." He held up a finger in exception. "All but for those lucky few who've slipped into crazy town and  _know_  it. Cause only insane people have been on both sides of the coin; they're the only ones who can tell the difference." The man swiftly twisted his head to the side, so close to Tim's ear that he was barely even whispering. "So, in a world where we worship this piddle called 'truth,' what you call 'crazy' isn't all that crazy. Why, by spreading some chaos, your Uncle Joker is really doing a civil service, just like you Robin boys do." Tim didn't acknowledge the comparison, and Joker's expression slipped into comedic disappointment. "Eh, I didn't expect for you to understand right away. Personally, I always thought firsthand experience worked best in this case, living on the flip side, if you will."

An unnatural episode of laughter took over again, always when it was least expected like a Jack-in-the-Box or a push off a cliff. A pop sounded like a cap snapping off a pen, but Tim was too focused on everything other than the man in front of him, on rerunning memories like home movies. Home. Home, home, home. Focus on the silhouette of Titans Tower in the evening, on high school lockers clanging opening, and talking with Alfred over breakfast. Tim managed to lose himself in the thoughts for a moment. Just the one.

But something shifted in his lower peripherals then, a flash of familiar red that his brain registered long before the syringe sting in his thigh. Tim's gaze snapped down in spite of himself, a subdued panic flickering across his face despite years of training and experience. Three mls. Chemical smell. Fear Toxin-esque. Tim was familiar enough with the feeling as he watched red flood into his skin.

The emptied needle was tossed aside in the next instant, the clatter a death sentence. Tim could already feel himself slipping away.

"Don't get me wrong," Joker beamed, sympathetic words not matching his face. "It's been oodles of fun, kid. Wish we could chat forever. It's just you did have a point earlier: I've got bigger guano to fry. Nothing personal." The fatal euphemism didn't go unnoticed, partially welcomed at this point, but the implication of other people...

"What…do you—"

A new man appeared in the back of the van, a pair of stoic brown eyes and a grim expression. "You know what to do," Joker sang with a whistle, ignoring Tim completely while springing to a stand. "Sprang River should do the trick nicely. The generic 'no one will find him' kind of place. Should be easy enough to get the  _real_  party started." He patted his henchman's cheek flippantly before whisking himself out of view.

Tim hadn't been thinking clearly for days, certainly wasn't now with three cc's of who-knew-what circulating, but still, something didn't click there. What did Joker mean by "real?" Was capturing him… Was it not the plan all along?

Tim sluggishly ran the numbers, stumbled back to the last memory that was certain.

Crane's threat to release Fear Toxin was where his mind stopped, the thing that had led to him getting captured. It was something Joker had no doubt orchestrated, but Tim… He'd just assumed that had been the sole reason for the ploy, to get a dig in at Bruce, capture one of the Robins and finish them off. But now—

Now, Tim wasn't sure.

Because there was this feeling draining out his blood that this had just been one wild goose chase to keep Bruce busy. Dumping Tim off the mid-river was no spectacle, not an M.O. Bruce would be looking for, and if it took weeks for everyone to figure that out, weeks that allowed Joker to do whatever it is he wanted, then….

A streak of panic.

_I'm only a distraction._

"Hey!" Tim barked after Joker's long-gone image, feeling eaten alive by the sudden adrenaline in his chest like a bad LSD trip.  _Focus. Play it up and learn as much as you can._  "What happened to not doing it quick, huh? Some lame game you're playing, resorting to cheap mob tricks."

Joker reappeared behind the van, waggling a finger in playful condescension. "Don't play that game with me, little bird. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't figured it all out by now. And I thought you were the smart one." The man clicked his tongue patronizingly. "Here's hoping you birds swim better than you detect. Adieu." The starting notes of a whistled "Alouette" filled the air before two doors swung shut and all sound died, tossed in shadow.

Tim balked in the direction of the closed door for another moment.

_He's planning something else._

"Care to explain what your boss meant by that?" Tim asked with forced calm, attention clipping to the henchman now standing across from him. He could hardly make him out in the dark quiet, but Tim was familiar enough with this one. A brick of a guy. Simple features aside from his brown eyes chipped with hazel. He wasn't much of a gloater, Tim could tell, hard to get intel from. The observation didn't help any to slow the way Tim's heart was pounding in his chest, the sweaty palms, and the tingling sensation worming its way into his quads and calves like his muscles were atrophying right then and there. Crane's toxin had been given intramuscularly, meaning he had a conservative fifteen minutes until the serum got in full swing. A precious fifteen.

_Logic. Facts. Calm. Breathe._

"Guess your boss didn't think you were valuable enough to know the whole plan, then," Tim goaded, eyes vetting the shadows for anything of use. He came up empty on both fronts. There were no boxes, no loose parts. Nothing. Even Tim's guard observed him with tangible blankness, unperturbed. The only thing that gave was the van engine roaring to life, the interior juddering as the wheels started to pull away.

_"I'm surprised you haven't figured it all out by now."_

Tim didn't know what that meant exactly, but he knew what it implied: There was more going on here, things that could kill people, his friends, his family. It didn't matter to Tim if it was just him getting hurt, him with switchblade metal in his back and him alone in dark spaces for days. But someone else…

Forgotten instinct was kicking in that dying wasn't an option, like a light switch or a trigger-pull at the start of a race. He had to get out of here, had to tell someone. There was no other way.

_Think. There has to be something here._

Four walls. No adornments. The person in front of him had a gun on his hip, he remembered, maybe a knife somewhere too. It was already proven that the man wasn't prone to being provoked, though, and someone else had to be driving as well. Even if the teenager started something, backup would only be a minute away. Tim didn't like those odds, not with the way his skin was growing more feverish by the second, and even then, there were still two pairs of handcuffs on him, one around his wrists, the other around his ankles. Hoping for a universal key was out of the question; he'd have to pick them somehow.

Now-shaking fingers double-checked the locks for what felt like the thousandth time. They weren't anything too complicated. All he needed was a sliver of metal. Just one piece would do, something thin and malleable but not too brittle. That was it.

And that was also the very thing he knew he wouldn't be able to find.

Tim leaned back again, fingers searching the wall behind him. Nothing. His legs were starting to shake too at this point, or maybe he was just imagining that they were. His head was getting fuzzier and fuzzier, harder to think, and a pothole joined the fray, the shaking of the van yielding a burning headache, as if someone was holding a clothing iron to his scalp.

_Breathe. Focus._

Tim was counting out the seconds and guessed he must've only had ten minutes left before he was reduced to a delirious mess. If this was the experimental toxin from Crane's lab, too, then Tim really had no clue what to expect.

 _Ten minutes_ , he kept telling himself, tied himself to it like a prayer.  _Have to find something._

The vehicle swung to the right as if on cue, the tight kind Tim had to brace himself for. It took another moment for him to regain his faculties, his head spinning and spinning, but he was certain something small had skittered into the side of his thigh. There wasn't anything else in here, he was sure, half-wondering if he wasn't just imagining the sensation.

And that's when the shape of the new object clicked in his brain.

He pinned the item there without a second thought, careful not to catch the pointed part because the longer he thought about it the more certain he was of its identity. The thick plastic of the barrel, what had to hold three mls, and the tapered feel of a Luer lock...

_The syringe!_

Tim almost crowed in success, hit with a paradox of optimism and anxiety that was near-crippling.

He had a chance.

He had  _one_  chance.

The teenager carefully maneuvered his hands around his back to snatch his nascent hope from his side, splaying a finger against the length of the needle. An inch and a half, it felt like. Short, but he could make it work.

 _Legs first_ , Tim quickly decided, working his cuffed hands forward underneath him so they were positioned right in front of his feet. The chains racketed the quiet, but with the involuntary shakes gripping him, it thankfully seemed ordinary. Unthankfully, it made fashioning a tension wrench out of the needle that much more nerve-wracking. If it broke off in the lock, he was done for.

 _Keep it together_ , he reminded himself, pressing the tip of the needle into the lock and slowly bending it at 90 degrees. _I can do this._

The metal tensed, the uncomfortable moments of waiting to apply more pressure lasting an eternity. The entire time his eyes were glued to the silhouette of his guard, borderline paranoid. The man hadn't caught on yet, he was certain. Tim just had to keep it that way.

Eventually, he could feel the needle permanently fixed at a perpendicular. It almost seemed anticlimactic to finish off the lock around his ankles, the retreat of the metal surrounding his boots an amazing feeling. The euphoria was enough to make him go mad, or—

Maybe that was what was happening. His head was still ridiculously light, fizzing like carbonation, and he wasn't able to feel his skin anymore, as if it had all burned away and left him with his muscles exposed to the searing air.

He was running out of time.

Tim's fingers slipped around the now-freed shackle, his best bet for a distraction. The pair of cuffs around his wrists were still grating, but he could work on those mid-sprint. The trick was getting out while he still  _could_  sprint.

_One shot._

He gripped the cuffs tightly, gearing his muscles.

_That's all I've got._

And so he waited, searched for that one instant. It felt eternal, but slowly, painfully, the silhouette in front of him shifted weight. Off-balance. Unprepared.

That was it.

Tim swung his arms as hard as he could, rocketing the cuffs toward the wall on the driver's side. It collided in a deafening roar, rattling Tim's head and what he was hoping was his caught-off-guard guard's. If he was lucky, it'd stun him for a split second. That was the opportunity Tim was counting on to launch himself toward the exit.

The action was far from graceful, his unused legs screaming from the strain, but Tim managed to skid into the van's back door and fumble with the handle. Joker's henchman was shouting for the driver to stop, but it was too late: Tim had already spilled out onto the road.

A clumsy somersault on the concrete was enough to get the teenager going, booking it in whatever direction seemed promising. Bullets were riddling the space right behind his feet, but he already had a sizable lead. Had to keep it up.

It wasn't long before the sounds of gunfire had died away, and the second pair of cuffs were off, tossed along with the syringe in a direction different from the one he was going in. Where exactly he was headed, however, Tim still wasn't sure. His eyes were flying over shops and street signs, quickly recognizing this to be an abandoned part of the Bowery. The night was pitch, a fact his dark-adjusted eyes were thankful for, and as much as he half-tumbled around a maze of tight alley turns, he didn't see anyone out. Just spires of lamplight and his panicked reflection in store windows.

He had to get somewhere safe. The sooner the better, his body kept telling him. Nothing was really hurting anymore (first time in forever). That was more concerning, though, because his mind and muscles were feeling distant instead, not obeying him. Tim's hand found its way to a wall for support, another to his pounding ribs. He was aware his escape stunt had reopened the scab around his back, the night-cooled chill of blood kissing his spine. The wound was bleeding scarily heavily, forcing him to stop and secure the tattered remnant of his cape around his torso; he didn't want to leave a trail for someone to follow, because…people had been following him…right?

He found he couldn't remember.

That realization was unnerving at best. Memory was beginning to feel like a slippery slope he wasn't prepared to climb.

Tim convinced himself that fact made it more crucial to get to a safehouse, glancing around again once he tightened the knot of his makeshift bandage. No one was to be seen, thankfully, but his doubling vision was making it hard to decipher where exactly he was. He'd lost track of the turns he'd made—an unusual thing for him. Fortunately, a familiar piece of graffiti informed him where he was.

He wracked his brain, dug through piles of mental maps, but there were no safehouses nearby he could recall, not for another mile he didn't have it in him to make. At this point, he just needed somewhere. Anywhere.

And that's when an idea occurred.

There was one place a block from here, an abandoned apartment complex scheduled for demolition. Tim only knew of it because he kept tabs on a certain family member, just to be on the safe side. He never thought he'd ever use the place himself, but now...

 _Please don't be there_ , Tim prayed as he forced himself forward, imagining how ticked Jason would be that he knew of the place. The man was out of state last he knew, but one could never be too sure. Then again, Tim was willing to bet Jason hated Joker more than he hated Tim; even if Jason was there, the man'd probably help him out.

Tim still wasn't sure, but the sound of footsteps closing in around him spurred another shot of adrenaline that helped him move quicker. He hurriedly tossed himself around a corner, repeating Jason's address in his head over and over because, for whatever reason, he was terrified he'd forget it. Thoughts were becoming more coagulated, solidifying into shapes he couldn't distinguish anymore, and more disturbingly, there were times he'd catch his reflection and swear he'd seen someone else standing behind him.

"Come on, Tim," he hissed, forcing another step forward as he clutched his abdomen. His diaphragm felt like it was dissolving in acid, lungs flaccid in his chest. "You can make it."

 _"Are you sure?"_  Tim whirled around at the sound of Bruce's voice, hope dead at the caustic tone. The man looked inhuman, nightmarish, the black of his cape masking his eyes in a demonic way. " _You let even_ me  _down, remember? Are you sure you won't do the same for yourself?"_

Tim stared for only a second, fighting off the urge to take a step back. There was a familiar twist in his head that said reality and nightmare were mixing, that he couldn't trust himself anymore.

His fifteen minutes were up.

Another figure sprouted up out of a sudden mist, the burst of movement like an attack. " _Bruce is dead, Tim,_ " the new form uttered coldly, the sentiment ringing and ringing. The sounds split the pavement around them in an unnatural way, like the whole world was breaking into pieces. Tim observed the spectacle, mortified, but forced himself to battle his way through the haze and chaos. He repeated the address over and over, but the words were already in his head: "Y _ou were his Robin, Tim, and you let him die. You failed._ "

 _Wrong_ , a part of him argued. Bruce was alive, but he didn't know how or why. He... He couldn't remember.

Who was Bruce?

There was this feeling, too, that he had to tell someone something, warn someone, and the urgency of the premonition continued pulsing through his veins. It was enough to keep Tim upright when he stopped at the side of a dilapidated building, the paint on the outside splintering and cracking like the entire building was turning to ash right in front of him. He managed his way up the fire escape steps with his eyes snapped closed, trying to fend off the images dancing in front of his eyes and on his skin. His skull was splitting open, drumming with each thready pulse.

_Two more steps. One more step..._

Although he couldn't recall how he knew, the instant Tim laid eyes on the chipped window of an apartment, he recognized that was his stop.

The window groaned open enough for Tim to collapse on the wood floor on the inside. The fall ripped the air from his lungs, eyes still swimming with familiar figures he couldn't put names to anymore.

_"You're a failure."_

_"Not worth it."_

_"Don't need you."_

"Shut up," Tim hissed, pushing himself up, because as much as passing out was ideal, he was aware he had to treat the marks on his back. He doubted there was an emergency com system set up here yet, meaning he had to stop the bleeding himself. No one else was here.

The room spun around him the moment he moved to stand, Tim not sure if it was from the hallucinogen or hypotension. He managed to stumble to what he hoped was the bathroom and set into a pattern of tearing through the disgusting drawers of the vanity in search of medical supplies. The whole thing was empty, even the medicine cabinet that Tim would've ripped the door clean off of if not for its stubborn upper hinge.

At some point, he didn't even know what he was looking for anymore, using the task to just keep conscious because he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here or for what reason. His vision was shot, just splotches of fuzz and heat, and his hazy reflection in the mirror was starting to look less and less like himself. The blanched skin was still similar, but the face was growing pointed, a hook nose with yellowed teeth and green hair. He couldn't even recognize the person there.

 _"Didn't I tell you, kid?"_  the strange reflection grinned. " _Your friends—They don't need people like us. We're just dead weight."_

_"We're gone because of your mistakes."_

_"Worthless."_

_"Better off_ _without you._

"Shut up," Tim gritted out again, bent over the sink to keep himself from passing out altogether. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."

He felt like he was on fire, choking on panic, his muscles shaking out of his control. There was only one thing keeping him together in this strange place he suddenly didn't recognize, one voice he remembered vaguely but wasn't sure he wasn't just imagining.

_"So, I have a request..."_

The voices quieted.

_"Don't die."_

The thought helped crowd out the thousand things battling in Tim's head, the doubting and the degrading, the things that said "you don't matter" because there was someone out there that thought he did. He couldn't put a face or a name to the voice, but there was one person in the world who was counting on him. That was enough.

"I can't die here…" he worked out, words caught in his throat. He had to make it back, back to wherever home was. He had to…

He struggled to push himself up. His feet supported him on motivation alone for just a moment, but it wasn't any use. Tim's vision went instantly blank like a TV screen shut off, something in his head droning and droning like a tripped alarm. He was aware of his knees buckling, a subdued panic of falling. He was slipping back, trying to catch himself on the backsplash of the shower wall only to have all feeling dissolve. Everything was slipping past him. Even the manic laughter from the mirror drained away, ink paint drizzling off a canvas, and all he could think was that he hadn't made it.

He hadn't made it home.


	18. Between the Prodigal and the Apocryphal

Unconsciousness was a fading silence. Tim remembered bits of things in passing, an engine hum, a jostle on his shoulder. There was something cold and hard against his forehead, a window he realized, with beams of light from side streets burning bright on his face.

"Tim?" someone called from beside him, Tim registering the name somewhere in connection with a hand on his shoulder. The grip was firm and dimly comforting, although Tim couldn't pin down why that was before awareness whited out again, the grip fading away.

The next time Tim came to, there were two voices instead of just the one. ("…needed space…" "…it for him….""…not listening…!"). The words came so garbled and nonsensical that all Tim knew was that he'd heard them and nothing more. Everything fit that pattern, all camera flashes of sentience that faded out as fast as they came: lying supine, a vague ache on the back of his hand, velvety texture beneath him.

None of it was threatening, none of it urgent.

In truth, Tim probably could have opened his eyes a lot sooner. Could have, but definitely was too exhausted to. Even thinking felt like dragging the hull of a ship through shallows, wood groaning and splintering and split by rocks. It kept cognition from sticking. Kept his eyes closed.

The first thing that really clicked was tactile, the sensation on the back of his hand sharpening, Tim tried to move, flexing his fingers against cloth, but the pinch only tugged against his skin, pulling and pricking and concentrated like—

_An IV._

The thought restarted Tim like a shock. Before he'd even realized it, the world had flipped, the teenager shooting up with his breath caught in his chest. Instantly, his skin was crawling with a clammy cold, muscles tight. The first thing that registered visually was the sheen off medical equipment ( _Didn't get away. All dead. My fault._ ), and that idea alone had Tim's attention spinning, the dark sound of laughter ringing in his ears. There were rocks lining the wall like he was trapped underground still ( _Still?_ ), running out of air, adrenaline. The observation only made him more panicked, because Tim had to get away. Had to warn everyone about something, make sure they were—

"Tim, it's alright!"

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. It spurred a jump out of him, head snapping to the side. Indistinct shapes danced across his eyes in multiples before converging into a familiar face.

Blue eyes. Dark hair. Tanned skin.

The realization calcined thought, burned away a protective layer like ozone. Not green hair or yellow grins. Just "brother." Safe.

"Hey."

Tim's vision refocused.

"There you are." Dick shot him a smile that came out broken. He was wearing his Nightwing gear sans the mask, and his hair was more disheveled than usual, like he hadn't been sleeping. "It's just me, buddy," the man asserted, gently rubbing up and down Tim's arms. "It's okay. You're okay."

Despite the words, Dick didn't look too sure. He had the appearance of someone who was handling a cornered animal, and truly, that wasn't far off from how Tim felt right then. His head was still spinning, temporals aching, and he could've sworn he'd heard laughing earlier. Maybe…Maybe he'd just imagined it, though.

It took Dick rearranging the comforter over Tim's lap to bring him back. Tim hadn't even noticed he was sitting on a mattress until then, but the touch helped ground him, helped him remember to breathe. The fabric sat soft against his skin like a fine summer sand, and it was weighted too, because these…They're the blankets Alfred always used to help someone keep calm.

Tim blinked at the fabric blearily.

_...Alfred?_

Trying for another smile, Dick draped a separate blanket around Tim's shoulders, jarring his attention. "There we go. Let's get you warmed up a bit. It gets kinda cold down here, huh?"

Cold… Yeah. Tim felt cold. His clothes were gone save for a pair of compression shorts and… Tim hazily put a hand to his chest. There were strips of linen running the course of his torso and up over his collar bones.

Had he gotten hurt there recently?

He didn't think he had.

Dick looked instantly uncomfortable when he noticed where Tim's attention was. "I…I know you didn't want us to find out, but Bruce noticed the marks, and… Alfred just wanted to make sure it wasn't infected. That's all."

Tim struggled to process the explanation, letting his eyes fall closed as he tried to center himself. It felt like an acupuncturist had had a go at him and stuck needles in all the wrong places, pricked nerves that made his brain feel like he was stuck in the wrong time, a walking anachronism. There was an intuition haunting Tim, too, that he needed to tell Dick something but couldn't remember what.

"Tim, buddy…" Dick started, voice sounding like he was going to ease into a touchy subject.

A bout of shrieking cut him off. Tim's gaze shot up to follow the sound, a primal twitch of adrenaline heating his spine. It sounded like the laughter he'd heard before. Quick. Spiked.

Tim found only a fluttering hoard of shadows up above, bat wings between stalactites like snips of velour. The image would've calmed him if it hadn't summoned something else to mind.

Tim's hand hovered up over his shoulder until the pads of his fingers met a mesh of linen and harsh scar lines that rose up into his neck. It immediately registered why his back had been wrapped up, and his eyes widened in horror.

"I'm just a distraction."

"What—" Dick started. "No. Tim, you're not—"

Dick flinched when Tim's gaze flicked to him with a crazed intensity. "Where's Bruce?"

Dick faltered a second time at that, face flashing to match the seriousness in Tim's voice. "At the computers," he answered, looming closer for better leverage, concern obvious as Tim hurried to kick the blankets off himself. "Everyone's fine, so just calm down."

"I need to talk to him right now!" Tim moved his arm to bolt up only to feel the IV wrench at the skin of his hand like a shackle. Despite the knee-jerk panic at that, he immediately went to yank it out, pulled back only when Dick caught him by both wrists.

"Tim, stop! You're going to hurt yourself."

The teenager still tried to twist his arms free, because Dick didn't understand how serious this was. It'd been weeks since Tim had gotten away from Joker and all he was thinking about in that instant was what kind of damage the murderer could've set up for them within a month. "That doesn't matter right now! You don't understand—"

"Then help me to," Dick pressed, voice quiet but shockingly stern, and Tim stopped, arms still tangled in his brother's grip. His throat was suddenly dried out.

"It's…" Tim tried once, swallowing before staring down the blue symbol on his brother's chest, the glow almost iridescent. "It's me, Dick."

"I know—"

"No," Tim shook his head jerkily. "No, I mean it's  _me_."

There was a too-long pause. Tim made a concentrated effort to meet Dick's eyes then, and all there was was a look of confusion, then concern. Then, perhaps, something else. "You mean..." Dick started hesitantly, the words processing, "you remember?"

Tim nodded, biting his lower lip. Nausea was bubbling in his stomach, but he had to say his peace, almost panting it out against a sudden smothering of nerves. "Yeah, but that's not important. It's...Joker. We were wrong about what happened with Joker." Tim could tell he had Dick's full attention, encouraging him to choke out the last bit. "My going missing—It was just a distraction. He's planning something else. Something bigger."

"Did he tell you anything concrete?"

A headshake. The adrenaline was fading out, and Tim's brain was starting to ache, pulsating throbs pinned right behind his ears. He dimly felt like he was on fire.

"...Okay," Dick said softly. "I got it. You did good, Tim." He must have registered that Tim had his eyes closed, trying to ground himself in touch sensations—the damp, mineral-coated air expanding his lungs, hair bristling through the cooled sweat on the back of his neck. Tim sat still, focusing on breathing and waiting for Dick to leave.

Only Dick didn't leave.

Carefully, the man settled himself more fully next to Tim, the bed frame creaking. Tim hazily reopened his eyes, staring down the comforter he'd kicked off earlier. It glowed sunset-white from the dimmed potlights illuminating the space, and even that level of brightness felt like getting stabbed in the retina fifty times over.

On a lower level, Tim wanted to yell at Dick to leave, to scream at him that this was important, but he didn't have the voice. Thoughts continued coming in. Names with faces. Fishing trips with Dad. The circus with Dick. Conner and Bart and Steph. Suspending someone over a roof and a flash of mistrust in Bruce's eyes.

_"So I guess I made the right choice."_

Tim pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, waiting for the flashes of fervor to go away but they only intensified. When he pulled his hands away, he realized the skin there was glistening from either sweat or tears. He had a feeling he already knew which one it was.

"Tim…"

"I'm fine, Dick. You can go," Tim made himself say, even though every bone in his body was oversaturated with emotion. Utterly spent.

"Tim, listen to—"

"I said I'm fine, alright?"

It was louder than Tim had meant it to be, and instantly, the sheer volume hit him head-on, as if everything before had been muted and was suddenly flipped back on full-blast. The burst had given himself away, Tim knew, and he stubbornly studied the floor, as cold and solid under his feet as the ice settling in his veins.

Slowly, there was a warm touch on his shoulder, tethering him there like an anchor. Tim almost wanted to brush it off but didn't.

"Tim, your hands… They're shaking."

The teenager hadn't noticed it, but at the mention of them, it felt like each finger was suffering from the aftershock of a quake, every tremor loud and pronounced. Both hands were quickly brought together, if nothing more than to hide the trembling from himself.

Tim could still feel Dick's eyes on him, strangely terrifying.

"You remember what I told you, right?" the man spoke, voice barely above a whisper. He managed to pry apart Tim's hands. He'd thought they were stronger, really, but Dick pulled them away with ease, taking one in a hand of his own. The man's other hand remained on his shoulder, a constant in a crazy world. "I said you could always come talk to me when it got hard," Dick continued gently, and he moved his eyes to the floor too, tracing Tim's sight. "Me or Bruce or Alfred or—or anyone. We'll listen; we get it. So, don't shut yourself off, okay? Do you remember me saying that?"

Tim felt stupid for needing the man there to coach him, to sit with him and wait for him to say words he might not even be able to work out. There were probably a million other things Dick could've been doing—definitely one, at least—but Tim wasn't fine, not really, and he needed this. Maybe Dick needed it too.

The teenager nodded. "I remember."

"Yeah?" Dick encouraged quietly. "You remember what happens to me when you bottle yourself up?"

The question wasn't invasive, and a smile ghosted over Tim's face at the memory. "Your hair starts going gray?"

"That's right," Dick eased, mirroring the smile as he brushed a stray bang from his brother's forehead. "And I'll be a silver bachelor same as Bruce."

The comment laid there for a while, but eventually, Tim gave a dubious snort, weary but playful. "Silver bachelor? That's…I don't think that's a thing, Dick."

"No? Well, I'll make it a thing." Dick's grin grew a fraction, the man craning his neck so his face intersected with Tim's gaze. His voice was still soothing, like he thought Tim was liable to spook. "It sounds fun in theory, but the hair dye's expensive, and I like not being broke, thank you."

Tim let his eyes glean his friend's face. The man looked tired, older, and Tim felt guilty that he'd probably contributed to it. "I'll lend you some cash if that happens, Marcia," Tim proposed, doing his best to give him a genuine smile this time. "I hear I'm pretty loaded."

"You'd better mean that," Dick chided, and he leaned back, seemingly satisfied. He was still holding one of Tim's hands and gripping his shoulder, and as much as Tim wanted to break away on principle, he convinced himself the contact was okay; the touch was tactile courage, and Tim soaked it in like sunrays.

"I remembered," he breathed after a stretch. "Bits and pieces, but…they're there."

Dick kept quiet, mulling over the admission before asking, "Bad things?"

"When is it not bad?"

Dick hummed in grim agreement. "What about it then?" Tim felt the hold on his shoulder tighten faintly. "Was it…was it Joker or…?"

"No," Tim shook his head quickly. "It's not… I mean, Joker was bad… It was bad, but…" he shook his head again, "but it was only me, you know? No one else got hurt—no one I cared about, so… I'll be alright."

Dick didn't look convinced but didn't press it, instead shadowing, "You'll be alright but…?"

"There were happy ones too. Things I remembered." Tim tugged at a stitch in the corner of the bed sheets beneath him. "There were people…Conner and…and Bart and Bruce…my parents. There were so many names and happy memories, and then, they were dead. It was so vivid like I could touch them, if I wanted to, and it just—it sucks," he said, cringing at the understatement, "because before they were only things that'd happened, but when I remembered being with them that…that's when they became things that happened to me, you know? It's stupid but—"

"It's not stupid, Tim," Dick corrected lightly.

"But it is, Dick. It really is." Tim tilted his head back, watching the high ceiling. "I got through it all once somehow, and now I've gotta do it again. It's like…like they're not even my memories, but here I am, stuck with them anyway."

Dick looked him over silently. "Maybe you're right about that." Tim gradually tilted his head forward again to look his brother in the eye. The man seemed sad but determined, the sparse lighting shining brightly on his pupils. "But do you know why those experiences were so painful the first time?"

"…Why?" Tim echoed, too exhausted to do anything else.

"Because you always suffered alone. That's why." Dick let go of his hand, a second-long absence of touch, before pressing his palm onto Tim's free shoulder, turning him gingerly in his direction. "You're always like that, because you're too afraid to burden anyone else. But I don't think you realize that when you share things like this, it…it makes your relationships stronger instead of weaker. Your friends can shoulder some of that weight you've got, Tim, and—" There was a flicker of regret on Dick's face. "—I know I haven't been the best brother for you, but I'm willing to try too, if you'll let me."

There was a split second where Tim wanted to argue and say Dick had always been a good brother, but…he hadn't believed him at first, about Bruce being alive. Tim knew that. It was still there in the back of his mind, a dull sting that continued to throb despite distance and time. It was all Tim could do to whisper a "thank you." He hoped it sounded sincere, because it was.

Dick must have realized that, as Tim found the man had pulled him into a hug, short and sweet, before pulling away again. Tim was caught in the embrace long after it left, but when he recovered, he noticed Dick had since glanced up, and Tim followed his eyes.

A figure stood in the entryway, mask still on like armor.

It was something Tim had noted over the years, that it was easier for Bruce to be Batman when times were tense, so he didn't comment on it, just let the man look him over with a tired, clinical air. "Are you alright?" he asked after a lengthy pause.

Tim nodded, at which Bruce's attention slid to the person beside him for confirmation. Dick thinned his lips, noncommittal, and Tim could read a year's worth of conversation in the air. There must have been more to it than Tim could get, though, because Bruce simply gestured behind himself with his head, the "Come with me" to Dick going unsaid, before drifting away.

Tim breathed in, wanting to ask more about what was going on, but let the words die. He'd figure it out soon enough, he supposed.

Dick looked back to Tim, the pair sharing a moment's silence before the older of the two slipped off the bed. He carefully picked the blanket off the floor and rearranged it around his brother. "I'm gonna go talk to B quick. You gonna be okay by yourself for a bit, or do you want me to get someone?"

Tim hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "No…no, you go. I'll be alright." He tried to put on his most encouraging face, but at the thought of being alone, he felt chilled to his core.

Dick didn't look like he'd bought it, but he left with a begrudging sigh and a, "I'll be right back," leaving Tim to his thoughts. And there were a lot of thoughts for him to sift through. A lifetime of them. At this point, Tim wasn't sure if he wanted to avoid everyone he'd ever known or call them all just to hear their voices in real life. Because it really wasn't feeling that way still—like real life. It felt like he'd watched years worth of home movies on a too-bright screen with the volume maxed out.

For the briefest of moments, Tim entertained trying to sort through all of it, that non-chronological pile of bad happenstances jumbled with the good. Just the idea of it made him feel like his stomach was trying to jump up his throat.

 _Easy, Tim_ , the teenager told himself, running a hand through his hair that was heavy with sweat. _One thing at a time._

Doing his best to ignore the screeches of another round of bats, Tim groped blindly around the nearby instrument tray for some tape and gauze, trying to focus on the physical for now. The IV hurt to work out, but with all the pounding in his skull, some form of controllable pain was almost welcome. He was so riveted on the task that he didn't notice the click-clack of claws on floor until the sound stopped.

"You shouldn't have removed that."

Tim's head snapped up to see someone else leaned against the wall, legs crossed at his ankles. He hadn't even heard him come in, although looking back, Tim should've suspected that Dick would fetch someone. It didn't change the fact that Tim was struck by the surrealness of the situation, having heard rumors, lived abstracted memories, and now seeing this person again. Tim didn't know what to say.

He doubted Damian did either.

"If you get blood on the sheets," the boy offered, drifting closer with a black Great Dane on his heels that Tim hadn't seen before, "I doubt Pennyworth will spare you."

Tim squinted, only partly because his eyes still hurt. "I'll keep that in mind."

Damian hummed at that in a way that sounded scarily like Bruce, just in a higher pitch, and set to work coiling the IV line back around the stand. He looked like he'd grown maybe half an inch, eyes still quick and direct with green confidence, but Tim didn't miss the uneven cut around the tips of his fingernails. They looked like they'd been chewed at.

Tim's gaze sobered, but he decided against going there.

"Um, so…" Tim segued instead, beckoning the Great Dane closer. "Whose dog is this, and when did we start pet-sitting?" Tim rubbed at the scruff of the dog's neck, surprised by the bright honey irises that looked back at him. The folds of skin on the hound's face were so heavy that his lower eyelids drooped.

"He's mine."

Tim flinched awfully at that, causing Damian to look politely perplexed. Tim wanted to pester him on how he'd gotten that OK'd by Alfred, when exactly this happened, because it was giving him a headache trying to remember when a pet last existed in the Manor. (His mind said "never.") Ultimately, all that came out of Tim's gaping mouth was an unimpressive "oh."

Damian obviously didn't know how to follow that up either, standing awkwardly for a few seconds before commenting, "I named him Titus, after Titus Andronicus."

Tim glanced back to the tongue-lolling dog looking up at him. His tail was wagging so strongly that his butt was wiggling a bit, clearly not the picture of violence. "You mean  _Shakespeare's_  Titus Andronicus?"

Damian nodded with an undisturbed "uh-huh," and Tim had to physically stifle the sudden nostalgia creeping up on him. It felt good to know some things never change. Tim shook his head once, trying to fight off the grin trying to peek through. "You wanna sit?" he invited, jerking his chin at the spot next to him.

For a moment, Tim thought Damian might retort with something smart, but he came without a fuss, sitting stiffly on the mattress with his hands folded in his lap.

"Does it hurt?" the boy asked suddenly.

Tim's eyebrows creased in confusion, prompting Damian to send a pointed look at the bandages peering out from where Tim still had the blanket draped over his shoulders. A wave of self-consciousness struck his chest, and Tim pulled the comforter more securely around himself, trying to hide it. "No. Not really."

Damian reached over to stroke the back of Titus' neck then. "You're a talentless liar, Drake."

Tim didn't comment on that, waiting for his brother to say something more. Damian didn't, though, just continued to pet his dog almost absentmindedly, looking out past the bend of the Cave wall leading out of the med-bay. Tim followed his gaze to see the glow of a glass case.

 _Jason_ , Tim recalled grimly, thinking back to the most recent time he'd seen the man with a newfound insight. He wondered where Jason was now, what he was doing. Truthfully, part of Tim was surprised that Jason hadn't shot him outright the other day. Yesterday now, he thought. It already felt like an eternity ago.

"...What was Father like back then?" Damian's voice echoed, interrupting the thought. "After Todd died?"

Tim refocused on the memorial case, memorizing the stitching around the R emblem with a ghostly reverence. Tim shrugged awkwardly, trying to dredge up something more about that time but coming up dry, save for the heady smell of film developer and the chirp of a camera flash. The drive to do something. To act.

"I think..." Tim tried, holding his head. "I remember feeling like he'd lost his mind. Or...just out of control. Something like that."

Damian's jaw tightened in his peripherals. "I see…"

Tim glanced back to him, puzzled as to why he sounded so lost. That was when it clicked, the last time he'd seen Damian in-person weeks ago, after Scarecrow. After Joker. His first night out. Tim had the gut-instinct to go find Dick, because in all things Damian, Tim was horribly out of his depth.

"You know, I…" Tim started, painfully aware of how startled he sounded. "I was there. That night." Damian's eyes flashed, registering what he was talking about before Tim continued. "When Bruce… _y_ _ou know_. I... It doesn't excuse it, Damian, but he wasn't—"

"Himself?" Damian finished bluntly. He looked torn, nearly pensive. "I am aware of that, Drake. Father himself is as well, it seems; he's already apologized."

Tim almost choked. That didn't seem like something Bruce could do. Damian went as far as to provide evidence, though, patting Titus' head as if to prove something, and well, that certainly explained a number of things.

"The main reason for my asking," Damian rephrased, "is because I was curious. I was born into this life— _for_  this life—expressly. Grayson and Todd, on the other hand, were conscripted into it. But you have always confused me. You shoved yourself into a situation where you were not wanted in the slightest."

Tim was positive that he would have bristled at that had it been two months ago. But right then, he let his brother finish. And Damian did, as much as it sounded like pulling teeth.

"In light of the past few weeks, I suppose I understand now, why it was necessary for you to be Robin at that time."

Tim leaned forward. "'At that time?'"

"Of course," Damian asserted instantly, the honesty fading into a forced haughtiness. "I'll be a better Robin than any of you. That's without question."

It took a second, Tim torn between being offended or not, before he snorted out a laugh. "I hope you do, Damian," he said good-naturedly. "I hope you do."

Damian huffed then, turning his face away. Tim suspected it was to hide the fact he was smirking. "Regardless," the boy restarted after the moment passed, "I'm glad you decided to keep your promise to me—the one from Crane's lair. It would've been troublesome to revive you just so I could kill you again."

"Thanks...I think."

Damian nodded, ruffling the sides of Titus' face. "You're welcome, Timothy."

A few seconds drifted by, punctured when a large "ahem" sounded that made both teenagers to look up. Dick was back, looking between them with a surprised grin. "Doth my eyes deceive me, or are we actually getting along?"

A beat.

"Not even on my  _deathbed_ , Grayson—"

"You should get those eyes of yours checked, Dick. Seriously—"

"Definitely not—"

" _No_."

If Dick's grin could have gotten any wider, it'd have ripped his face in half. "Can't blame a guy for hoping," he shrugged, strolling further into the space. The air in Tim's throat froze again as Bruce followed behind him, mask still in place. He looked even grimmer somehow.

"Damian," the man said quietly, "go get Alfred…" and almost as an afterthought, Tim swore the man added a "please."

Damian paused, glancing between everyone in the room as if to inquire why he was being excluded from the conversation. Dick shook his head sincerely, and that must have been enough, as Damian patted Titus' head once more and the dog followed as he slipped away, the boy's face marked with incertitude.

Meanwhile, Dick and Bruce had made themselves at home, Dick criss-crossing his legs in his previous spot beside Tim while Bruce lowered himself into a chair. Something about the layout made Tim feel like this was an interrogation, and he had the snap urge to bolt. That urge intensified when Bruce spoke.

"Dick said you wanted to talk to me."

It was left at that.

Open-ended.

Tim wasn't even sure where to start, wasn't sure if he wanted to. But he had to. The teenager scratched the back of his neck, then took a moment to wrap himself as tight as possible in the comforter.  _Just talk like it's a report_ , he self-coached.  _You've done it thousands of times._

"It's about the night I got away," Tim breathed, surprised his voice worked. "Joker said something to me. He was planning on having me dumped off the Sprang." (Both Bruce and Dick winced.) "Beforehand, though, he hinted that he had something else planned. I don't know what, but he said I should've been able to piece it together."

"Do you think you'd be able to?" Dick asked, leaning forward slightly.

"No. I...I don't think so. I remember feeling confused then too, so I don't think it's something I just forgot."

"The M.O.'s wrong," Bruce muttered absently, soft-sold agreement. "Did he say anything in particular that you can remember?"

"I was there for weeks, Bruce. He said a lot of stuff."

"Any themes?" Dick appended with a touch more sensitivity. "Places that we should look into? Anything could be a huge help."

Tim wracked his brain, pulling his knees up to his chest to fight off a shiver. "Maybe try the French Embassy in Downtown? He was talking about Dent for a while, so I'd search the bank too, and..." Tim tongued the pocket of one of his molars, not wanting to say his next thought, the one that left him feeling like he wanted to sheer off his own skin. "...I'd check the top of the GCPD. The bat signal."

The atmosphere thickened like it'd had a burst of nitroglycerin pumped through it.

Even Dick stiffened, and Tim didn't have it in him to break the silence. No one moved until, slowly, Bruce pushed himself up from his chair. He seemed zombie-like.

"What can I do to help?" Tim asked earnestly before the man could leave, and Bruce stalled, not looking back.

"You're not."

Tim's eyes went wide. "What?"

"You're off this case, Tim," Bruce clarified, sparing a look over his shoulder before leaving. Tim scrambled to take after him, nearly keeling over the instant he tried to stand because apparently his balance was taking five. Dick had to catch him.

"Timmy, maybe you should—"

"You can't do that, Bruce!" Tim barked, forcing his body to cooperate as he made himself follow out of the med-bay against what Dick was clearly advising. "I wasn't supposed to survive. That makes me the wildcard here, and if you lock me out of this, you lose that advantage. You can't afford that, not with someone like Joker."

"We'll manage," Bruce growled, already half-way across the Cave.

"And what if 'managing' doesn't cut it? Admit it! Whatever Joker said to me wasn't supposed to have a shelf-life this long. I don't know what it means, but it's important!"

"And what if it's not?" Bruce probed, typing in the password to the computers without sitting down. "Perhaps it was just a ruse to give you false hope right at the end. You know as well as I that's something Joker would do."

Tim balked, staring Bruce up and down because he didn't have anything to disprove that aside from bare-faced intuition. It was a surprisingly low blow, though, for Bruce to imply that Tim had it all wrong. There was something else there.

"Wait..." the teenager pressed, continuing to bore a hole into Bruce's head with his eyes. "This isn't about Joker at all. Is it?"

Bruce didn't turn.

"This is still about Harkness," Tim argued, astonished. "That's what this is. It's been months and after all of this you  _still_  don't trust me."

"You're changing the topic."

"Well, you're not denying it—"

"YOU'RE STAYING HERE!" Bruce roared, whirling around so fast that Tim recoiled multiple steps back. Even Dick tensed audibly from behind.

The next minute that passed was perpetual, unending. Tim could hear the blood rushing in his ears, growing dimly light-headed in a way that contended he shouldn't have been standing at all, but he was too stunned to move, waiting for Bruce to say more because there was obviously something bothering him. The juncture of hostility had dissipated almost as fast as it'd come, and it left Bruce with a hand shading his eyes, clearly drained. Eventually, the hand fell to his mouth, still at odds with himself. The shift, though, allowed Tim to see that Bruce wasn't even looking at him. Not at his face, anyway.

Instantly, Tim's arms crossed around his torso in a fruitless attempt to mask the bandaging. He suddenly felt too exposed, every emotional scar on display in a raw, physical sense. He'd never felt more uncomfortable in his own skin than in that moment.

Thankfully, Bruce's footsteps broke the silence a moment later, drawing closer step by step. Tim was still taken aback when the man gently took his face in his hands, the cool smoothness of kevlar gloves a shock. Tim didn't even know if he breathed.

"...Promise me you'll stay," Bruce said weakly—begged, the cloud of the sentence warming Tim's face despite the lack of energy in the words. Tim just stood there, a mixture of unease building in him, because he'd heard Batman's voice come from Bruce Wayne before.

But never the other way around.

There was something terrifying about that, in a primal, reflexive way. Vulnerable. Tim could sense each hair rise along his arms, shoulder bones hiking like he didn't know what to do with himself.

He just...hadn't realized. The toll this had taken on everyone else.

"I…" the teenager started, feeling a bit like he was selling his soul but was unsure what else to say. "I promise."

Immediately, the mood relaxed, the air moving again. "Thank you," Bruce Wayne said, another second-long moment of sharing the same space, before the man vanished. Tim didn't know where he went or when, just knew that the presence in front of him had slipped him by like a breeze.

"You believe me, don't you?" Tim asked hopefully, turning to find Dick watching him with an empathizing expression. The man's mouth twisted in something torn between a smile and a grimace.

"Tim, if there's anything I've learned about you, it's that your instincts don't steer you wrong." He nodded tiredly. "Yeah, I believe you."

Tim exhaled in relief, but Dick wasn't done.

"I do think Bruce is right about one thing, though. I don't know about Joker or what all you heard, but...maybe this is one of those things that you need to trust us to handle. Give yourself some time, you know? You've kinda had it rough lately."

Tim felt too empty to debate the point. His toes were starting to turn white from being on the cold floor for so long, and he hadn't even felt the ache of it. He appreciated it when Dick came around to stand beside him.

"I'll make sure to recheck everything myself. Reinterview Crane, go over the sewer system again. Anything I can think of to figure this out. So you just get some rest and let Alfred do what Alfred does best, alright?"

"...Alright," Tim echoed despondently. He knew what Dick was saying made sense, but he also knew to trust his gut. And right then, every fiber of his being was sirening that whatever was waiting up ahead they weren't prepared for.

Not in the slightest.


End file.
